The gathering of ills - his nature
And scudding 'midst grey fumy clouds,
He's fond of tempests indignative
Of oakgrove rustle, foam ov founts.
Between the leaves in yellow, fallen
Immovable is placed his throne,
On it, amid the winds too stolid,
He sits so gloomy, woebegone.
He incredulity inspires
Disdained a pure fair love,
To every prayer bids defiance
He gives a vacant look at blood.
And flavour of sublime sensations
He always quench with passions voice,
And Muse of timid inflammations
Is frightened with unearthly Host.
My Demon Лермонтов - Мой Демон
© Copyright: Дитрих Даркер, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126040507139
Свидетельство о публикации №126040507139
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