Сонет N 25 Безответная любовь

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

That love at length should find me out and bring

This fierce and trivial brow unto dust,

Is, after all, I must confess, but just;

There is a subtle beauty in this thing,

A wry perfection; wherefore now let sing

All voices how into my throat is thrust,

Unwelcome as Death's own, Love's bitter crust,

All criers proclaim it, and all steeples ring.

This being done, there let the matter rest.

What more remains is neither here nor there.

That you requite me not is plain to see;

Myself your slave herein have I confessed:

Thus far, indeed, the world may mock at me;

But if I suffer, it is my own affair.