The fifth act of the drama
Blows in the wind of autumn,
Each flower-bed in the park seems
A fresh grave, we have finished
The funeral-feast, and there’s nothing
To do. Why then do I linger
As if I am expecting
A miracle? It’s the way a feeble
Hand can hold fast to a heavy
Boat for a long time by the pier
As one is saying goodbye
To the person who’s left standing.
Пятым действием драмы
Веет воздух осенний,
Каждая клумба в парке
Кажется свежей могилой.
Справлена чистая тризна,
И больше нечего делать,
Что же я медлю, словно
Скоро свершится чудо?
Так тяжелую лодку долго
У пристани слабой рукою
Удерживать можно, прощаясь
С тем, кто остался на суше.
«Blessed are they that righteousness proclaim! / But he who traces with discerning art / Some wicked convolution of the heart / Is not engulfed in the foul depths of shame. / Two regions — one of splendor, one of night — / We seek with equal zeal to scan aright. / An apple tumbles ear...»
«Of what use are you, days? There can be nothing / New for the mind to greet; / The world is full of things and all familiar, / And time can but repeat. Not vainly did you strive in your impatience, / O frantic soul, to gain / Your full development bef...»
«Phyllida, as the nights grow colder, / With every winter that she sees, / Bares further her appalling shoulder, / A skeleton that strives to please; And, a sepulchral Venus, brightly / Approaches the last couch of all, / As though before she slept she lightly / Let, one by one, her garm...»
«I’m a beast corralled for slaughter / Freedom shines so far away... / Here the hounds are getting closer, / As the hunt is underway. A lake’s edge, a somber forest, / An old tree log lying there… / No way out. I am cornered. / Come what may. I do n...»