Читать книгу The City of Dreadful Night - Thomson James - Страница 4

  Because he seemed to walk with an intent

    I followed him; who, shadowlike and frail,

  Unswervingly though slowly onward went,

    Regardless, wrapt in thought as in a veil:

  Thus step for step with lonely sounding feet

  We travelled many a long dim silent street.

  At length he paused: a black mass in the gloom,

    A tower that merged into the heavy sky;

  Around, the huddled stones of grave and tomb:

    Some old God's-acre now corruption's sty:

  He murmured to himself with dull despair,

  Here Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air.

  Then turning to the right went on once more

    And travelled weary roads without suspense;

  And reached at last a low wall's open door,

    Whose villa gleamed beyond the foliage dense:

  He gazed, and muttered with a hard despair,

  Here Love died, stabbed by its own worshipped pair.

  Then turning to the right resumed his march,

    And travelled street and lanes with wondrous strength,

  Until on stooping through a narrow arch

    We stood before a squalid house at length:

  He gazed, and whispered with a cold despair,

  Here Hope died, starved out in its utmost lair.

  When he had spoken thus, before he stirred,

    I spoke, perplexed by something in the signs

  Of desolation I had seen and heard

    In this drear pilgrimage to ruined shrines:

  Where Faith and Love and Hope are dead indeed,

  Can Life still live?  By what doth it proceed?

  As whom his one intense thought overpowers,

    He answered coldly, Take a watch, erase

  The signs and figures of the circling hours,

    Detach the hands, remove the dial-face;

  The works proceed until run down; although

  Bereft of purpose, void of use, still go.

  Then turning to the right paced on again,

    And traversed squares and travelled streets whose glooms

  Seemed more and more familiar to my ken;

    And reached that sullen temple of the tombs;

  And paused to murmur with the old despair,

  Hear Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air.

  I ceased to follow, for the knot of doubt

    Was severed sharply with a cruel knife:

  He circled thus forever tracing out

    The series of the fraction left of Life;

  Perpetual recurrence in the scope

  Of but three terms, dead Faith, dead Love, dead Hope.2