Резултати претраге

The Dapple-grey Mare

In the tower, silence was already high.
The poplars of the Salto Creek were whispering.
 
The Norman horses at their posts
were crushing the fodder with noise from the crusts.
 
Down there it was, the mare, wild,
born among the pines on the salty beach,
 
which in the nostrils still had the spray of the sea
and the screams in the pointed ears.
 
With an elbow on the manger, close to it,
was my mother

The Washerwomen

In the field half gray and half black
A plow stays without oxes, that seems
Forgotten, in the light vapour.
 
And the rhytmic washing of the laudresses
Comes from the milcourse
With its thick splashes and long singsongs.
 
The wind blows and the frond snows under,
And you still don't return to your town!
When you left, how I stayed!
As the plow, in the middle of the fallow.