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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 154/821
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Clay
,
brown
,
damp
,
began
to
be
seen
in
the
hole
.
It
rose
.
Nearly
over
.
A
mound
of
damp
clods
rose
more
,
rose
,
and
the
gravediggers
rested
their
spades
.
All
uncovered
again
for
a
few
instants
.
The
boy
propped
his
wreath
against
a
corner
:
the
brother
-
in
-
law
his
on
a
lump
.
The
gravediggers
put
on
their
caps
and
carried
their
earthy
spades
towards
the
barrow
.
Then
knocked
the
blades
lightly
on
the
turf
:
clean
.
One
bent
to
pluck
from
the
haft
a
long
tuft
of
grass
.
One
,
leaving
his
mates
,
walked
slowly
on
with
shouldered
weapon
,
its
blade
blueglancing
.
Silently
at
the
gravehead
another
coiled
the
coffinband
.
His
navelcord
.
The
brother
-
in
-
law
,
turning
away
,
placed
something
in
his
free
hand
.
Thanks
in
silence
.
Sorry
,
sir
:
trouble
.
Headshake
.
I
know
that
.
For
yourselves
just
.
The
mourners
moved
away
slowly
without
aim
,
by
devious
paths
,
staying
at
whiles
to
read
a
name
on
a
tomb
.
—
Let
us
go
round
by
the
chief
’
s
grave
,
Hynes
said
.
We
have
time
.
—
Let
us
,
Mr
Power
said
.
They
turned
to
the
right
,
following
their
slow
thoughts
.
With
awe
Mr
Power
’
s
blank
voice
spoke
:
—
Some
say
he
is
not
in
that
grave
at
all
.
That
the
coffin
was
filled
with
stones
.
That
one
day
he
will
come
again
.
Hynes
shook
his
head
.
—
Parnell
will
never
come
again
,
he
said
.
He
’
s
there
,
all
that
was
mortal
of
him
.
Peace
to
his
ashes
.
Mr
Bloom
walked
unheeded
along
his
grove
by
saddened
angels
,
crosses
,
broken
pillars
,
family
vaults
,
stone
hopes
praying
with
upcast
eyes
,
old
Ireland
’
s
hearts
and
hands
.
More
sensible
to
spend
the
money
on
some
charity
for
the
living
.
Pray
for
the
repose
of
the
soul
of
.
Does
anybody
really
?
Plant
him
and
have
done
with
him
.
Like
down
a
coalshoot
.
Then
lump
them
together
to
save
time
.
All
souls
’
day
.
Twentyseventh
I
’
ll
be
at
his
grave
.
Ten
shillings
for
the
gardener
.
He
keeps
it
free
of
weeds
.
Old
man
himself
.
Bent
down
double
with
his
shears
clipping
.
Near
death
’
s
door
.
Who
passed
away
.
Who
departed
this
life
.
As
if
they
did
it
of
their
own
accord
.
Got
the
shove
,
all
of
them
.
Who
kicked
the
bucket
.
More
interesting
if
they
told
you
what
they
were
.
So
and
So
,
wheelwright
.
I
travelled
for
cork
lino
.
I
paid
five
shillings
in
the
pound
.
Or
a
woman
’
s
with
her
saucepan
.
I
cooked
good
Irish
stew
.
Eulogy
in
a
country
churchyard
it
ought
to
be
that
poem
of
whose
is
it
Wordsworth
or
Thomas
Campbell
.
Entered
into
rest
the
protestants
put
it
.
Old
Dr
Murren
’
s
.
The
great
physician
called
him
home
.
Well
it
’
s
God
’
s
acre
for
them
.
Nice
country
residence
.
Newly
plastered
and
painted
.
Ideal
spot
to
have
a
quiet
smoke
and
read
the
Church
Times
.
Marriage
ads
they
never
try
to
beautify
.
Rusty
wreaths
hung
on
knobs
,
garlands
of
bronzefoil
.
Better
value
that
for
the
money
.
Still
,
the
flowers
are
more
poetical
.
The
other
gets
rather
tiresome
,
never
withering
.
Expresses
nothing
.
Immortelles
.
A
bird
sat
tamely
perched
on
a
poplar
branch
.
Like
stuffed
.
Like
the
wedding
present
alderman
Hooper
gave
us
.
Hoo
!
Not
a
budge
out
of
him
.
Knows
there
are
no
catapults
to
let
fly
at
him
.
Dead
animal
even
sadder
.
Silly
-
Milly
burying
the
little
dead
bird
in
the
kitchen
matchbox
,
a
daisychain
and
bits
of
broken
chainies
on
the
grave
.
