Que tes mains soient bénies, car elles sont impures.
Remy de Gourmont.
The shining of your golden eyes I bless!
That broke my dark delirium with light.
The smile that wavers on your lips I bless!
It kindled me like wine, it rent my night.
The poison in your kisses hid, I bless!
All thoughts, all dreams are poisoned by your kiss.
The scythe that sings in your embrace I bless!
All my past years you have mown down with this.
The fire of your awful love I bless!
I wrapped its flame about me joyfully.
The darkness of your spirit, lo, I bless!
For that its wings were outstretched over me.
Blessed all you gave, blessed what your soul denies:
I bless you for the grief, the dread, the pain;
That after you I strove toward Paradise;
That here without its gates, I stand in vain.
Que tes mains soient bénies,
Car elles sont impures!
Remy de Gourmont
Сиянье глаз твоих благословляю!
В моем бреду светило мне оно.
Улыбку уст твоих благословляю!
Она меня пьянила, как вино.
Твоих лобзаний яд благословляю!
Он отравил все думы и мечты.
Твоих объятий серп благословляю!
Все прошлое во мне им сжала ты.
Огонь любви твоей благословляю!
Я радостно упал в его костер.
Весь мрак души твоей благословляю!
Он надо мной свое крыло простер.
За всё, за всё тебя благословляю!
За скорбь, за боль, за ужас долгих дней,
За то, что влекся за тобою к Раю,
За то, что стыну у его дверей!
«The eventide fondled the earth in farewell, / And in its suspense not a leaf dared to sway; / The creak of a cart far away rose and fell, / Stars marshalled aquiver in silent array. Clear-blue is the sky, — deep and strange is its guise; / But look not upon it with glances that crave, / ...»
«Not bloodshed, nor ills we engender, / Could yet fling a mantle of gloom / On the heavenly palace of splendour, / Or on earth with the lure of its bloom. As of old, we are tenderly ravished / By valleys and blossoms and rills; / Unchanging, the starlight is lavished, / And the tune that...»
«Far above the stretch of hills / The east has flung its lustre round; / Moistened breath of night-time fills / Clods of plough-uprooted ground. See, how with his measured pace / O'er the fields the sower goes; / Calm, as in God's holy place / On earth and in the heaven flows. A sacred ...»
«Man's ponderings and labours, dream-like, pass away, / Heroes will be forgot, and sepulchres decay, — / And all in common dust is merged. / And righteousness and love, and sciences and lore, / As words upon a slate, whose meaning is no more, / By undiscovered hand axe purged. But words ...»