Читать книгу Dark Soil - Stringer Arthur - Страница 10

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The man I hated,

As he hated me,

Lies dead to-day.

Mine enemy of old has gone,

And I remain.

That means the steel is sheathed,

The life-long battle ends,

The rancor falls away.

No more shall his black scorn

Shadow my tumbled dreams.

No more, from those cold lips,

Shall fall the flippant sneer,

The hot words flecked with fire.

He died, they tell me, died last night;

And I—I should be glad

That he no longer harries me

And sours my life with hate.

Yet I, the victor, who should hold the field,

Sit numbed with a new defeat.

For he, forlornly valorous,

He, triumphant to the last,

Has fared into a far country

Where I erewhile must go,

Must go with a whisper on my lips,

Gropingly, asking of the Dark

If any friend dwell there.