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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 197/241
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While
sacrificing
hands
upraise
The
chalice
flowing
to
the
brim
.
Tell
no
more
of
enchanted
days
.
He
spoke
the
verses
aloud
from
the
first
lines
till
the
music
and
rhythm
suffused
his
mind
,
turning
it
to
quiet
indulgence
;
then
copied
them
painfully
to
feel
them
the
better
by
seeing
them
;
then
lay
back
on
his
bolster
.
The
full
morning
light
had
come
.
No
sound
was
to
be
heard
;
but
he
knew
that
all
around
him
life
was
about
to
awaken
in
common
noises
,
hoarse
voices
,
sleepy
prayers
.
Shrinking
from
that
life
he
turned
towards
the
wall
,
making
a
cowl
of
the
blanket
and
staring
at
the
great
overblown
scarlet
flowers
of
the
tattered
wallpaper
.
He
tried
to
warm
his
perishing
joy
in
their
scarlet
glow
,
imagining
a
roseway
from
where
he
lay
upwards
to
heaven
all
strewn
with
scarlet
flowers
.
Weary
!
Weary
!
He
too
was
weary
of
ardent
ways
.
A
gradual
warmth
,
a
languorous
weariness
passed
over
him
descending
along
his
spine
from
his
closely
cowled
head
.
He
felt
it
descend
and
,
seeing
himself
as
he
lay
,
smiled
.
Soon
he
would
sleep
.
He
had
written
verses
for
her
again
after
ten
years
.
Ten
years
before
she
had
worn
her
shawl
cowlwise
about
her
head
,
sending
sprays
of
her
warm
breath
into
the
night
air
,
tapping
her
foot
upon
the
glassy
road
.
It
was
the
last
tram
;
the
lank
brown
horses
knew
it
and
shook
their
bells
to
the
clear
night
in
admonition
.
The
conductor
talked
with
the
driver
,
both
nodding
often
in
the
green
light
of
the
lamp
.
They
stood
on
the
steps
of
the
tram
,
he
on
the
upper
,
she
on
the
lower
.
She
came
up
to
his
step
many
times
between
their
phrases
and
went
down
again
and
once
or
twice
remained
beside
him
forgetting
to
go
down
and
then
went
down
.
Let
be
!
Let
be
!
Ten
years
from
that
wisdom
of
children
to
his
folly
.
If
he
sent
her
the
verses
?
They
would
be
read
out
at
breakfast
amid
the
tapping
of
egg-shells
.
Folly
indeed
!
Her
brothers
would
laugh
and
try
to
wrest
the
page
from
each
other
with
their
strong
hard
fingers
.
The
suave
priest
,
her
uncle
,
seated
in
his
arm-chair
,
would
hold
the
page
at
arm
's
length
,
read
it
smiling
and
approve
of
the
literary
form
.
No
,
no
;
that
was
folly
.
