Читать книгу The Essential Works of Walt Whitman - Walt Whitman - Страница 352

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Of that blithe throat of thine from arctic bleak and blank,

I’ll mind the lesson, solitary bird — let me too welcome chilling drifts,

E’en the profoundest chill, as now — a torpid pulse, a brain unnerv’d,

Old age land-lock’d within its winter bay — (cold, cold, O cold!)

These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet,

For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to the last;

Not summer’s zones alone — not chants of youth, or south’s warm tides alone,

But held by sluggish floes, pack’d in the northern ice, the cumulus

of years,

These with gay heart I also sing.