Читать книгу The City of Dreadful Night - Thomson James - Страница 2

  Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write

    My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears."

  Yet why evoke the spectres of black night

    To blot the sunshine of exultant years?

  Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?

  Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,

    And wail life's discords into careless ears?

  Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles

    To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth

  Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,

    False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth;

  Because it gives some sense of power and passion

  In helpless innocence to try to fashion

    Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth.

  Surely I write not for the hopeful young,

    Or those who deem their happiness of worth,

  Or such as pasture and grow fat among

    The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,

  Or pious spirits with a God above them

  To sanctify and glorify and love them,

    Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

  For none of these I write, and none of these

    Could read the writing if they deigned to try;

  So may they flourish in their due degrees,

    On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.

  If any cares for the weak words here written,

  It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,

    Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.

  Yes, here and there some weary wanderer

    In that same city of tremendous night,

  Will understand the speech and feel a stir

    Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight;

  "I suffer mute and lonely, yet another

  Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother

    Travels the same wild paths though out of sight."

  O sad Fraternity, do I unfold

    Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore?

  Nay, be assured; no secret can be told

    To any who divined it not before:

  None uninitiate by many a presage

  Will comprehend the language of the message,

    Although proclaimed aloud for evermore.