Дом жизни. Поэзия. Письма 1836-1881

Sonnet XXIV.
Pride of Youth

Even as a child, of sorrow that we give
The dead, but little in his heart can find,
Since without need of thought to his clear mind
Their turn it is to die and his to live: -
Even so the winged New Love smiles to receive
Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind,
Nor, forward glorying, casts one look behind
Where night-rack shrouds the Old Love fugitive.

There is a change in every hour's recall,
And the last cowslip in the fields we see
On the same days with the first corn-poppy.
Alas for hourly change! Alas for all
The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall,
Even as the beads of a told rosary!

Сонет XXIV.
Гордость Юности

Чужды печали детскому уму,
В нём скорби по умершим не найдём,
Дитя печётся только о живом,
А мёртвое - зачем оно ему?
Так Новая Любовь дана всему,
Летит она с багряным ветерком,
Не видя в упоении своём,
Как Старая Любовь скользит во тьму.

Меняясь, час прочерчивает круг.
Калужницы рассветный перелив
Нарушит мак, пунцов и горделив.
И бусины воспоминаний вдруг
Уронит Юность из надменных рук,
Навек перебирать их завершив.

Winter

How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn-tree!
A swarm of such, three little months ago,
Had hidden in the leaves and let none know
Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy.
A white flake here and there—a snow-lily
Of last night's frost—our naked flower-beds hold;
And for a rose-flower on the darkling mould
The redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee.

The current shudders to its icebound sedge:
Nipped in their bath, the stark reeds one by one
Flash each its clinging diamond in the sun:
'Neath winds which for this winter's sovereign pledge
Shall curb great king-masts to the ocean's edge
And leave memorial forest-kings o'erthrown.

Кукушки кукованье, пульс весны.
Стыдливый цвет, хранимый юной розой,
Её покинет большеглазой, взрослой.
Подкрылья птиц, от летних зорь красны,
Средь облачной блистают белизны.
Ручьи опять на свет выходят ранний,
И воздух полон сладостных желаний,
И дочери рассвета петь вольны.

Их любит страсть, и память: вместе с летом
Проходит радость. Ветер воровски
Уносит в лес заката лоскутки –
Но на кусте, одним из них одетом,
Листва сухая вспыхнет алым цветом,
Рождая песни счастья и тоски.

Sonnet LXIV.
Ardour and Memory

The cuckoo-throb, the heartbeat of the Spring;
The rosebud's blush that leaves it as it grows
Into the full-eyed fair unblushing rose;
The summer clouds that visit every wing
With fires of sunrise and of sunsetting;
The furtive flickering streams to light re-born
'Mid airs new-fledged and valorous lusts of morn,
While all the daughters of the daybreak sing: –

These ardour loves, and memory: and when flown
All joys, and through dark forest-boughs in flight
The wind swoops onward brandishing the light,
Even yet the rose-tree's verdure left alone
Will flush all ruddy though the rose be gone;
With ditties and with dirges infinite.

Ручей так мил, но ты милее втрое:
С твоих густых волос я снял покров,
И вижу робкий блеск лесных цветов,
Запутанных в их золотистом рое.
На грани года, в чуждом ей настрое,
Колеблется Весна: на тихий зов
Не тянется терновник из снегов,
Беседки полнит веянье сырое.

Но солнце будит луг в апреле раннем.
Закрой глаза, ты слышишь – здесь и там
Весна проходит лёгким трепетаньем,
Как поцелуй, по векам и губам,
И целый час Любовь клянётся нам,
Что в сердце снег хранить мы перестанем.

Sonnet XIV.
Youth’s Spring-Tribute

On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
And see the newborn woodflowers bashful-eyed
Look through the golden tresses here and there.
On these debatable borders of the year
Spring’s foor half falters; scarce she yet may know
The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow;
And through her bowers the wind’s way still is clear.

But April’s sun strikes down the glades to-day;
So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss
Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray,
Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this
Is even the hour of Love’s sworn suitservice,
With whom cold hearts are counted castaway.

The Moonstar

Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness,
Because my lady is more lovely still.
Glorying I gaze, and yield with glad goodwill
To thee thy tribute; by whose sweet-spun dress
Of delicate life Love labours to assess
My lady's absolute queendom; saying, "Lo!
How high this beauty is, which yet doth show
But as that beauty's sovereign votaress."

Lady, I saw thee with her, side by side;
And as, when night's fair fires their queen surround,
An emulous star too near the moon will ride, –
Even so thy rays within her luminous bound
Were traced no more; and by thy light so drown'd,
Lady, no thou but she was glorified.

Sonnet XXVIII.
Soul-Light

What other woman could be loved like you,
Or how of you should love possess his fill?
After the fullness of all rapture, still, –
As at the end of some deep avenue
A tender glamour of day, – there comes to view
Far in your eyes a yet more hungering thrill, –
Such fire as Love's soul-winnowing hands distill
Even from his inmost ark of light and dew.

And as the traveller triumphs with the sun,
Glorying in heat's mid-height, yet startide brings
Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport springs
From limpid lambent hours of day begun; –
Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul doth move
My soul with changeful light of infinite love.

Sonnet X.
The Portrait

O Lord of all compassionate control,
O Love! let this my lady’s picture glow
Under my hand to praise her name, and show
Even of her inner self the perfect whole:
That he who seeks her beauty’s furthest goal,
Beyond the light that the sweet glances throw
And refluent wave of the sweet smile, may know
The very sky and sea-line of her soul.

Lo! it is done. Above the enthroning throat
The mouth’s mold testifies of voice and kiss,
The shadowed eyes remember and foresee.
Her face is made her shrine. Let all men note
That in all years (O Love, thy gift is this!)
They that would look on her must come to me.