Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
Sonnets. 1. Man Cannot Be a Sophist to His Heart
Man cannot be a sophist to his heart, He must look nakedly on his intent, Expose it of all shreds of argument, And strip it like a slave-girl in the mart. What though with speckled truths and masked confessions He still deceives awhile the outer sense? At barely half his honesty’s expense Still earns the world’s excuse for the world’s transgressions? His conscience cannot play the marshland elf, Confusing that poor midnight wanderer, His soul, with floundering lights and errant gleams. O what damnation man would deal himself If meeting her beyond his uttermost dreams He still could face his soul and lie to her.
Eleanor Farjeon’s other poems:
