.


:




:

































 

 

 

 


()




() , , - .

, , : ; . . .

. . , , , -


, . -, . . , . - . , , .

, , : - :

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread Stitch"! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt: And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work work work

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work! "Work work work!

Till the brain begins to swim! Work work work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!"

(Thomas H d. The Song of the Shirt)

; , , , "Song of the Shirt" , , : , : -


. 4 ; 6 ; 4; , ; 5 ; 6 4.

, 8 , . , , , 5, 1 , 4, 4, 5, 3. , . , , , . . : , 3 , 3, 4, 3, 3, , 3, 4 3.

, 3 4 . , , .

, 8 , 2 , 6 , , . . - . "The Song of the Shirt" () .

" Captain! My Captain!" - , , :


Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people are exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But heart! heart! heart! the bleeding drops of red,

Where of the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreath for you the

shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult. shores, and ring bells! But I with mournful tread,

Walk the desk my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

, - . . .

"Crossing Brooklyn Ferry":

Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than masthemm'd

Manhattan?

River and sunset and scallop-edg'd waves of flood-tide? The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight

and the belated lighter? What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices

I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach? What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that

looks in my face?

Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

We understand then do we not?

What I promis'd without mentioning it, have you not accepted?

What the study could not teach what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish'd, is it not?


, - , - .

, , . , . () , .

, - , . , , , . - .

- , - . , .

- , . - . - .






:


: 2016-11-19; !; : 404 |


:

:

, , .
==> ...

1869 - | 1502 -


© 2015-2024 lektsii.org - -

: 0.01 .