M. Konopnicka - Faun tańczy.docx

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                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    faub.jpg                                                                                                                                                  Faun tańczy                                                                                               Kapitoliński tańczy Faun                                                                                                                                   Zaklęty w marmur boski,                                                                                                                                                        Rozkoszą życia dyszy mu pierś                                                                                                           Pierś naga i bez troski.                                                                                                                                                                          Miękką się linią grzbiet mu gnie,                                                                                                                                        Subtelne grają kości,                                                                                                                                            Uderza stopą w bachiczny rytm,                                                                                                                                                                                                                               W bachiczny rytm młodości.                                                                                                                                                         Na niskie czoło opadł włos,                                                                                                                                                                                                       Na wargach uśmiech leży,                                                                                                                                  Pręży się bioder napięty łuk,                                                                                                                                                                                                     Z  któro Eros mierzy.                                                                                                                                            Dwa dźwięczne dyski w ręku wzniósł,                                                                                                                                                           W takt je do skoku trąca,                                                                                                                            Widać, jak w żyły nabiega krew,                                                                                                                                                                                                 Krew bujna i gorąca.                                                                                                                              Zanim pogoni nimfę w gaj                                                                                                                              Już w ogniach ku niej błyska                                                                                                                              Już czuje nagą białą jej pierś                                                                                                                              I miękkość wrzosowiska.                                                                                                                                            Jeszcze nie płomień lecz już żar                                                                                                                W schylonym oku pała                                                                                                                                            Jeszcze nie puchar lecz woń i smak                                                                                                                Jagody wonnej ciała.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            1045                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Jak świeży gaj! Jak piękny świat!                                                                                                                Jak kipią życia miody!                                                                                                                                            W pląs nieśmiertelny puszcza się Faun,                                                                                                  Faun grecki , wiecznie młody.                                                                                                                                            Hellady śmierć, co białą skroń                                                                                                                              Złożyła w mirt i róże                                                                                                                                            I łoskot Romy zwalonej w gruz                                                                                                                              Przetańczył w tym marmurze.                                                                                                                Zmieniała ziemia bogi swe,                                                                                                                              Zmieniała niebo pana                                                                                                                                            A w białej willi wciąż tańczył Faun                                                                                                                Cezara Hadriana.                                                                                                                                                          I padł na niego ruin pył,                                                                                                                              Proch przysuł go wiekowy,              ...

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