The fire and the page, the hewed hairs and the swords,
The grains and the millstone, the whispers and the clatter —
God saves all that — especially the words
Of love and pity, as His only way to utter.
The harsh pulse pounds and the blood torrent whips,
The spade knocks evenly in them, by gentle muse begotten,
For life is so unique, they from the mortal lips
Sound more clear than from the divine wad-cotton.
Oh, the great soul, I'm bowing overseas
To you, who found them, and that, your smoldering portion,
Sleeping in the homeland, which, thanks to you, at least,
Obtained the gift of speech in the deaf-mute space ocean.
Страницу и огонь, зерно и жернова́,
Секиры острие́ и усечённый волос —
Бог сохраняет всё; особенно — слова
Прощенья и любви, как собственный свой голос.
В них бьётся рваный пульс, в них слышен костный хруст,
И заступ в них стучит; ровны́ и глуховаты,
Затем что жизнь — одна, они из смертных уст
Звучат отчётливей, че́м из надмирной ваты.
Великая душа, поклон через моря
За то, что их нашла, — тебе и части тленной,
Что спит в родной земле, тебе благодаря
Обре́тшей речи дар в глухонемой вселенной.
«Is the hard parting outlived, or / Is the inevitable looking into my / Eyes? If so, how young you seem / To me, clouds, my tender swans! You do not dream those far - off thunderstorms, you / Would like always to swim and luxuriate in the / Skies, only towards evening in a pink cloud it is...»
«Sonnet No matter how resounding or lively, the Ia- / -mbus is weary and stilled / Among golden sparklings, / Having yielded to other harmonies. And so, suddenly on the bare twigs / Of the prose of morning, a hail of / Crackers; on the leaves by a wave of / The wand, verse gallops after...»
«Sonnet You are equally ready consorts in the / Service of flattery or reverie; should / One call you you, or call you / Thou, Second Paeon, Fourth Paeon? As on coins, your once bright / Features are eroded, and you / Pour out mossy lines of a / Gravestone, like icing on cakes. You are...»
«Sonnet I am set up for thirty years so as to / Live painfully breaking up the rays / From ghostly planets into “yes” and / “No,” into “ah!” and “baa.” So as to live worrying and grieving / Over what is already not there... / And I should certainly be a poet / If I could...»