Malade - Бесплатная аудиокнига

MALADE

THE sick grapes on the chair by the bed lie prone;
         at the window
     The tassel of the blind swings gently, tapping the
         pane,
     As a little wind comes in.
     The room is the hollow rind of a fruit, a gourd
     Scooped out and dry, where a spider,
     Folded in its legs as in a bed,
     Lies on the dust, watching where is nothing to see
         but twilight and walls.

     And if the day outside were mine! What is the day
     But a grey cave, with great grey spider-cloths
         hanging
     Low from the roof, and the wet dust falling softly
         from them
     Over the wet dark rocks, the houses, and over
     The spiders with white faces, that scuttle on the
         floor of the cave!
     I am choking with creeping, grey confinedness.

     But somewhere birds, beside a lake of light, spread
         wings
     Larger than the largest fans, and rise in a stream
         upwards
     And upwards on the sunlight that rains invisible,
     So that the birds are like one wafted feather,
     Small and ecstatic suspended over a vast spread
         country.