Читать книгу Within A Budding Grove - Marcel Proust - Страница 3

To K. S. S.

That men in armour may be bornWith serpents' teeth the field is sown; Rains mould, winds bend, suns gild the cornToo quickly ripe, too early mown.

I scan the quivering heads, beholdThe features, catch the whispered breath Of friends long garnered in the coldUnopening granaries of death, Whose names in solemn cadence ringAcross my slow oblivious page.

Their friendship was a finer thingThan fame, or wealth, or honoured age, And—while you live and I—shall lastIts tale of seasons with us yet Who cherish, in the undying past,The men we never can forget.

C. K. S. M.

Bad Kissingen,

July 31, 1923.