Сонет N 14 Роща Любви

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter

We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove,

Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after

The launching of the colored moths of Love.

Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone

We bound about our irreligious brows,

And fettered him with garlands of our own,

And spread a banquet in his frugal house.

Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear

Though we should break our bodies in his flame,

And pour our blood upon his altar, here

Henceforward is a grove without a name,

A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,

Whence flee forever a woman and a man.