Читать книгу Modern American Poetry - Various - Страница 36

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The innocent, sweet Day is dead.

Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.

O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed!

—Put out the light, said he.

A sweeter light than ever rayed

From star of heaven or eye of maid

Has vanished in the unknown Shade

—She’s dead, she’s dead, said he.

Now, in a wild, sad after-mood

The tawny Night sits still to brood

Upon the dawn-time when he wooed

—I would she lived, said he.

Star-memories of happier times,

Of loving deeds and lovers’ rhymes,

Throng forth in silvery pantomimes.

—Come back, O Day! said he.