Читать книгу #Sonnets - Lucien Young - Страница 29

Thou mistress cruel! Thou dost mistreat me so.

Thou art unfriendly, dirty, rude and grave.

Though I admire thy grandeur, thou dost show

No corresponding love to me, thy slave.

I have not means within thy heart to dwell;

That central part disdains the likes of me,

But still I strive each day my soul to sell

That I might slum in thy periphery.

And yet, when I resolve from thee to ’scape

My will doth quickly fail. What should I do?

In some poor hamlet an existence scrape,

Where jobs are scarce and strangers talk to you?

Thy loss imagined turns my veins to ice

(Though lots of people tell me Brighton’s nice).