Категория: чужда литература

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled,

whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether

much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not

spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted

at the expense of the general intellect.”

/Edgar Allan Poe/

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
 
/Edgar Allan Poe/