Читать книгу The New-York Book of Poetry - Группа авторов - Страница 4

Oh, I have lived through keenest care, And still may live through more, We know not what the heart can bear, Until the worst be o'er; The worst is not when fears assail, Before the shaft has sped, Nor when we kiss the visage, pale And beautiful, though dead. Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope With danger and distress, The very impulse left by hope Will make despair seem less; Then all is life—acute, intense, The thoughts in tumult tost, So reels the mind with wildered sense, It knows not what is lost. But when that shuddering scene is past, When earth receives her own, And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last The heart is left alone; When all is gone—our hopes and fears All buried in one tomb, And we have dried the source of tears, There comes a settled gloom. Then comes the worst, the undying thought That broods within the breast, Because its loveliest one is not, And what are all the rest?