Стихи и эссе

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put their show,

If we should stumble when musicians play?
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,

Because I love you more then I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,

There must be reason why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,

The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,

And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone (Funeral Blues)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

1938

TRINCULO'S SONG

Mechanic, merchant, king,
Are warmed by the cold clown
Whose head is in the clouds
And never can get down.

Into a solitude

Undreamed of by their fat
Quick dreams have lifted me;
The north wind steals my hat.

On clear days I can see

Green acres far below,
And the red roof where I
Was Little Trinculo.

There lies that solid world

These hands can never reach;
My history, my love,
Is but a choice of speech.

A terror shakes my tree,

A flock of words fly out,
Whereat a laughter shakes
The busy and devout.

Wild images, come down

Out of your freezing sky,
That I, like shorter men,
May get my joke and die.

From "Under Which Lyre"