Сонет N 35 Творение

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

What's this of death, from you who never will die?

Think you the wrist that fashioned you in clay,

The thumb that set the hollow just that way

In your full throat and lidded the long eye

So roundly from the forehead, will let lie

Broken, forgotten, under foot some day

Your unimpeachable body, and so slay

The work he most had been remembered by?

I tell you this: whatever of dust to dust

Goes down, whatever of ashes may return

To its essential self in its own season,

Loveliness such as yours will not be lost,

But, cast in bronze upon his very urn,

Make known him Master, and for what good reason.