|r.i.p. richard wilbur
||[окт. 18, 2017|03:33 am]
Ричард Уилбур, один из самых ярких американских поэтов, бесподобный художник английского языка, умер в возрасте 96 лет. Огромная потеря и очень жаль его и очень жаль...
"Now," said the voice of lock and window-bar,
"You must confront things as they truly are.
Open your eyes at last, and see
The desolateness of reality."
"Things have," I said, "a pallid, empty look,
Like pictures in an unused coloring book."
"Now that the scales have fallen from your eyes,"
Said the sad hallways, "you must recognize
How childishly your former sight
Salted the world with glory and delight."
"This cannot be the world," I said. "Nor will it,
Till the heart's crayon spangle and fulfill it."
A Measuring Worm
This yellow striped green
Caterpillar, climbing up
The steep window screen,
Constantly (for lack
Of a full set of legs) keeps
Humping up his back.
It’s as if he sent
By a sort of semaphore
Dark omegas meant
To warn of Last Things.
Although he doesn’t know it,
He will soon have wings,
And I, too, don’t know
Toward what undreamt condition
Inch by inch I go.