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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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vanished
with
his
breath
,
and
,
with
her
lovers
,
she
was
dead
...
--
Ever
his
wit
and
not
her
eyes
,
ever
his
art
and
not
her
hair
:
"
Who
'd
learn
a
trick
in
rhyme
,
be
wise
and
pause
before
his
sonnet
there
"
...
So
all
my
words
,
however
true
,
might
sing
you
to
a
thousandth
June
,
and
no
one
ever
know
that
you
were
Beauty
for
an
afternoon
.
So
he
wrote
one
day
,
when
he
pondered
how
coldly
we
thought
of
the
"
Dark
Lady
of
the
Sonnets
,
"
and
how
little
we
remembered
her
as
the
great
man
wanted
her
remembered
.
For
what
Shakespeare
must
have
desired
,
to
have
been
able
to
write
with
such
divine
despair
,
was
that
the
lady
should
live
...
and
now
we
have
no
real
interest
in
her
...
The
irony
of
it
is
that
if
he
had
cared
more
for
the
poem
than
for
the
lady
the
sonnet
would
be
only
obvious
,
imitative
rhetoric
and
no
one
would
ever
have
read
it
after
twenty
years
...
This
was
the
last
night
Amory
ever
saw
Eleanor
.
He
was
leaving
in
the
morning
and
they
had
agreed
to
take
a
long
farewell
trot
by
the
cold
moonlight
.
She
wanted
to
talk
,
she
said
--
perhaps
the
last
time
in
her
life
that
she
could
be
rational
(
she
meant
pose
with
comfort
)
.
So
they
had
turned
into
the
woods
and
rode
for
half
an
hour
with
scarcely
a
word
,
except
when
she
whispered
"
Damn
!
"
at
a
bothersome
branch
--
whispered
it
as
no
other
girl
was
ever
able
to
whisper
it
.
Then
they
started
up
Harper
's
Hill
,
walking
their
tired
horses
.
"
Good
Lord
!
It
's
quiet
here
!
"
whispered
Eleanor
;
"
much
more
lonesome
than
the
woods
.
"
