He died in January, early in the year.
Under the lamp was cold at the entrance.
I do not have time to show the nature of the
him their beauty chorus.
The glass becomes snow.
Under a lamp stood herald cold.
At the Crossroads of frozen puddles.
And he shut the door on the chain s.
Legacy days will reproach in bankruptcy
Moose family. For all his orphanhood,
poetry is based on the similarity
running away monotonous days.
Splashing in the pupil, and the solution in the lymph,
it is akin to a Aeolian nymph,
as a friend of Narcissus. But in the calendar rhyme
is another probably know better.
Without evil grimaces, without the meditation of evil,
of all the large catalog bounty
Death chooses not beauty syllable,
and invariably the singer.
She does not need the fields and woods,
the sea around the magnificent splendor;
she is generous, on a small segment
afford to accumulate hearts.
On vacant lots already burned trees,
and sweeps out the door splinters,
and endure the angels on the shelf.
Catholic, He lived up to Christmas.
But, like the sea in a noisy hour tide,
for volnolom plesnuvši, rightly
ago absorbs waves, hastily
from his left, he triumph.
It is not God, only time, Time
calls him. And the younger tribe
huge waves of his movements burden
on the edge of the fringe blooming
easily raises and, goodbye, beats
on the edge of the earth, excess force laughs.
And in January it juts out into the bay
in the land of days, where we are staying.
Reading in the people, Maggie, Where are you?
Here! And maintain an aura:
Two sorrowful figure looking at the floor.
They sing. How similar their tunes!
Two maidens - and we can not say, that the maiden.
not passion, and determines the sex of the pain.
One is similar to Adam in box-
turnover, but hairstyle - Eve.
Bowing his sleepy face,
America, where he was born, and –
and England, where he died, unılı,
They stand on the sides of his grave.
And the clouds float across the sky ships.
But each grave - Land's End.
Apollo, take off the crown,
lay it at the feet of
Eliot, as the limit
for immortality in the world of bodies.
The noise of footsteps and the sound of the lyre
will remember the forest around.
Will serve as a memory
only that, he would live.
Will remember the forest and dale.
He will remember Aeolus.
Will remember every herb,
I wanted Horatius Flaccus.
Thomas Stern, Do not be afraid of goats.
Memory, if not granite,
dandelion save the.
So love goes away,
forever and ever, in someone else's night,
interrupting cry, the words,
became nezrymoy, though alive.
You went to another, but we
We call the kingdom of darkness
this land, that is hidden.
It tells so jealous.
Will remember the forest and meadow.
Will remember everything.
Like the body - the world is not empty! –
remember the kindness of hands and mouth.
12 January 1965