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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 12/821
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—
Don
’
t
mope
over
it
all
day
,
he
said
.
I
’
m
inconsequent
.
Give
up
the
moody
brooding
.
His
head
vanished
but
the
drone
of
his
descending
voice
boomed
out
of
the
stairhead
:
And
no
more
turn
aside
and
brood
Upon
love
’
s
bitter
mystery
For
Fergus
rules
the
brazen
cars
.
Woodshadows
floated
silently
by
through
the
morning
peace
from
the
stairhead
seaward
where
he
gazed
.
Inshore
and
farther
out
the
mirror
of
water
whitened
,
spurned
by
lightshod
hurrying
feet
.
White
breast
of
the
dim
sea
.
The
twining
stresses
,
two
by
two
.
A
hand
plucking
the
harpstrings
,
merging
their
twining
chords
.
Wavewhite
wedded
words
shimmering
on
the
dim
tide
.
A
cloud
began
to
cover
the
sun
slowly
,
wholly
,
shadowing
the
bay
in
deeper
green
.
It
lay
beneath
him
,
a
bowl
of
bitter
waters
.
Fergus
’
song
:
I
sang
it
alone
in
the
house
,
holding
down
the
long
dark
chords
.
Her
door
was
open
:
she
wanted
to
hear
my
music
.
Silent
with
awe
and
pity
I
went
to
her
bedside
.
She
was
crying
in
her
wretched
bed
.
For
those
words
,
Stephen
:
love
’
s
bitter
mystery
.
Where
now
?
Her
secrets
:
old
featherfans
,
tasselled
dancecards
,
powdered
with
musk
,
a
gaud
of
amber
beads
in
her
locked
drawer
.
A
birdcage
hung
in
the
sunny
window
of
her
house
when
she
was
a
girl
.
She
heard
old
Royce
sing
in
the
pantomime
of
Turko
the
Terrible
and
laughed
with
others
when
he
sang
:
I
am
the
boy
