Polska poezja

Wiersze po polsku


Wiersz Perils of the Small Hours

Perils of the Small HoursWhen life burns low as the fire in the grate
And all the evening’s books are read,
I sit alone, save for the dead
And the lovers I have grown to hate. But all at once the narrow gloom
Of hatred and despair expands
In tenderness: thought stretches hands
To welcome to the midnight roomAnother presence: – a memory
Of how last year in the sunlit field,
Laughing, you suddenly revealed
Beauty in immortality. For so it is; a gesture strips
Life bare of all its make-believe.
All unprepared we may receive
Our casual apocalypse. Sheer beauty, then you seemed to stir
Unbodied soul; soul sleeps to-night,
And love comes, dimming spirit’s sight,
When body plays interpreter.

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (No Ratings Yet)
Loading...

Wiersz Perils of the Small Hours - Aldous Huxley