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The grizzled Athenian ordered to hemlock,
Ordered to a drink and lights out,
Had a friend he never refused anything.

“Let me drink too,” the friend said.
And the grizzled Athenian answered,
“I never yet refused you anything.”

“I am short of hemlock enough for two,”
The head executioner interjected,
“There must be more silver for more hemlock.”

“Somebody pay this man for the drinks of death,”
The grizzled Athenian told his friends,
Who fished out the ready cash wanted.

“Since one cannot die on free cost at Athens,
Give this man his money,” were the words
Of the man named Phocion, the grizzled Athenian.

Yes, there are men who know how to die in a grand way.
There are men who make their finish worth mentioning.
Карл Сэндберг | Просмотров: 416 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

I was a boy when I heaid three red words
a thousand Frenchmen died in the streets
for: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity-I asked
why men die Jor woкds.

I was older; men with mustaches, sideburns
lilacs, told me the high golden words are:
Mother, Home and Heaven-other older men with
face decorations said: God, Duty, Immortality
-they sang these threes slow from deep lungs.

Years ticked off their say-so on the great clocks
of doom and damnation, soup and nuts: meteors flashed
their say-so: and out of great Russia came three
dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die
for: Bread, Peace, Land.

And I met a marine of the U.S.A., a leatherneck with
a girl on his knee for a memory in ports circling the
earth and he said: tell me how to say three things
and I always get by-gimme a plate of ham and eggs-
how much?-and-do you love me, kid?
Карл Сэндберг | Просмотров: 339 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work-
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.
Карл Сэндберг | Просмотров: 373 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

Lay me on an anvil, О God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.
Lay me on an anvil, О God.

Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue
nights into white stars.
Карл Сэндберг | Просмотров: 464 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains
of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go
fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and
women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers:
Карл Сэндберг | Просмотров: 355 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have
seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the
farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is
true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces
of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer
at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say
to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job,
here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little
soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a
savage pitted against the wilderness,
Building, breaking, rebuilding.
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never
lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and
under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth,
half-naked, sweating, proud be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker,
Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler
to the Nation.
Карл Сэндберг | Просмотров: 325 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
A saint, an angel—every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
No as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
Кристина Росетти | Просмотров: 337 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

A fool I was to sleep at noon,
And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept;
Faded and all-forsaken,
I weep as I have never wept:
Oh it was summer when I slept,
It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring
And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:—
Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,
No more to laugh, no more to sing,
I sit alone with sorrow.
Кристина Росетти | Просмотров: 341 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

Whenever Richard Gory went down town
We people on the pavement looked at him-
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich-yes, richer than a king-
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Gory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Эдвин Эрлингтон Робинсон | Просмотров: 327 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal.
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying -words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen, she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays himself with every leaf that flies
And hell is more than half of paradise
No; there is not a dawn in eastern skies-
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
I hat flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is
Bitter but one that faith may never miss
Out of a grave I come to tell you this-
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,
Nor think to riddle the dead words they sav
Nor any more to feel them as they fall-
But go, and if you trust her she will call
1 here is the western gate, Luke Havergal-
Luke Havergal.
Эдвин Эрлингтон Робинсон | Просмотров: 329 | Дата: 2009-08-26 | Комментарии (0)

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