Stephen Spender: Всі вірші поета

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On The Third Day

On the first summer day I lay in the valley.

Above rocks the sky sealed my eyes with a leaf

The grass licked my skin. The flowers bound my nostrils

With scented cotton threads. The soil invited

My hands and feet to grow down and have roots.

Bees and grass-hoppers drummed over

Crepitations of thirst rising from dry stones,

And the ants rearranged my ceaseless thoughts

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Stephen Spender

The Landscape near an Aerodrome

More beautiful and soft than any moth

With burring furred antennae feeling its huge path

Through dusk, the air-liner with shut-off engines

Glides over suburbs and the sleeves set trailing tall

To point the wind. Gently, broadly, she falls,

Scarcely disturbing charted currents of air.

Lulled by descent, the travellers across sea

And across feminine land indulging its easy limbs

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Stephen Spender

On The Pilots Who Destroyed Germany In The Spring Of 1945

I stood on a roof top and they wove their cage

Their murmuring throbbing cage, in the air of blue crystal.

I saw them gleam above the town like diamond bolts

Conjoining invisible struts of wire,

Carrying through the sky their geometric cage

Woven by senses delicate as a shoal of flashing fish.

They went. They left a silence in our streets below

Which boys gone to schoolroom leave in their playground.

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Stephen Spender

The Labourer In The Vineyard

Here are the ragged towers of vines

Stepped down the slope in terraces.

Through torn spaces between spearing leaves

The lake glows with waters combed sideways,

And climbing up to reach the vine-spire vanes

The mountain crests beyond the far shore

Paint their sky of glass with rocks and snow.

Lake below, mountains above, between

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Stephen Spender

O Night O Trembling Night

O night O trembling night O night of sighs

O night when my body was a rod O night

When my mouth was a vague animal cry

Pasturing on her flesh O night

When the close darkness was a nest

Made of her hair and filled with my eyes

(O stars impenetrable above

The fragile tent poled with our thighs

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Stephen Spender