Sacred is this unholy pain;
eternal, but not beginningless—
he died yesterday, the gray-eyed king.
The air was heavy, the sunset dull red,
my husband came home and, in passing, he said,
“Did you know? The gray-eyed king is dead.
They found his body by a great old oak,
the other hunters carried him home.
“Think of his poor queen! Young as she was,
last night was enough to turn her hair gray.”
My husband found his pipe by the hearth,
left for a night job.
I sat there and I stared
and stared at my daughter’s gray eyes.
The poplar trees outside the window
whispered to me in a rustling of leaves,
“Your king, your gray-eyed king is gone,
never in this world will you see him more.”
Слава тебе, безысходная боль!
Умер вчера сероглазый король.
Вечер осенний был душен и ал,
Муж мой, вернувшись, спокойно сказал:
«Знаешь, с охоты его принесли,
Тело у старого дуба нашли.
Жаль королеву. Такой молодой!...
За ночь одну она стала седой».
Трубку свою на камине нашел
И на работу ночную ушел.
Дочку мою я сейчас разбужу,
В серые глазки ее погляжу.
А за окном шелестят тополя:
«Нет на земле твоего короля...»