Madison Julius Cawein (Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн)
Insomnia
It seems that dawn will never climb The eastern hills; And, clad in mist and flame and rime, Make flashing highways of the rills. The night is as an ancient way Through some dead land, Whereon the ghosts of Memory And Sorrow wander hand in hand. By which man's works ignoble seem, Unbeautiful; And grandeur, but the ruined dream Of some proud queen, crowned with a skull. A way past-peopled, dark and old, That stretches far Its only real thing, the cold Vague light of sleep's one fitful star.
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