Cyprian Norwid - Do Teofila Lenartowicza, Kawiarenka Poetycka

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]



                                                                                                                                                                                              Do  Teofila Lenartowicza                                                                                                Ty mnie do pieśni pokornej nie wołaj,                                                               Bo ta już we mnie bez głosu,                                                                                             A jeśli milczę, nie przeto mnie połaj:                                                                                      Kwiatów ty nie chciej od kłosu!                                                                                                                        Bo ja z przeklętych jestem tego świata,                                                                                                      Ja bywam dumny i hardy,                                                                                                                        A miłość mija  , bracie, dwuskrzydła:                                                                                                                                                                    Od uwielbienia do wzgardy.                                                                     Szkoda, mój bracie, na wiatr ducha wywiać                                                               I krew wypluwać tęsknotą,                                                                                                     Żeby siedzących w cyrku uszczęśliwiać,                                                     Więc mów, że milczę tak oto.                                                                                                                          Gdy w głębi serca purpurę okrutną                                                                                Wyrabia prządka cierpienia,                                                                                               Smutni – lecz smutni, że aż Bogu smutno,                                                                          Królewskie mają milczenia.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          str.87                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
  • zanotowane.pl
  • doc.pisz.pl
  • pdf.pisz.pl
  • pees.xlx.pl
  •