Like winds of seas, you toss the shutters,
Like winds of deserts, you sing: «Behold!
You're mine for ever! I'm ancient Clutter,
Your old, good fellow, — unlock your hold!»
I dare not open, I hold the shutters,
I hold the shutters and hide my fright.
I keep and cherish, I keep with flutter
My love — my treasure, my last day light.
The sightless Chaos laughs, calls and moans:
«You'll die in irons — pull off this stuff!
You can be happy, you are alone,
Bliss lies in freedom — and in Non-Love.»
I grow colder and try a prayer,
I'm hardly able my love to pray...
My hands get weaker, I've lost warfare,
My hands get weaker... I will obey!
З. В.
Как ветер мокрый, ты бьешься в ставни,
Как ветер черный, поешь: ты мой!
Я древний хаос, я друг твой давний,
Твой друг единый, — открой, открой!
Держу я ставни, открыть не смею,
Держусь за ставни и страх таю.
Храню, лелею, храню, жалею
Мой луч последний — любовь мою.
Смеется хаос, зовет безокий:
Умрешь в оковах, — порви, порви!
Ты знаешь счастье, ты одинокий,
В свободе счастье — и в Нелюбви.
Охладевая, творю молитву,
Любви молитву едва творю...
Слабеют руки, кончаю битву,
Слабеют руки... Я отворю!
«Where, my childhood’s home, art thou, / Warm beneath the hillock’s brow? / And my little blue, blue bud, / And the sand where no one trod? / Where, my childhood’s home, art thou? Past the river sings the cock. / There the shepherd grazed his flock / And amid the water’s play / ...»
«O fields of corn, O fields of corn. / An orphan’s grief is mine; / Heavy on my heart lies yesterday, / But in my heart you shine. The fleeting miles whistle like birds / About my horse’s mane, / And the sun is sprinkling lavishly / Her holy healing rain. O land of floods and agony ...»
«I call not Death the child of darkness, / Nor, with the fancy of a slave, / Give him a scythe to arm his starkness / Nor skeleton from out the grave. O offspring of the air our master, / O ornament with brilliant charms, / You bear no scythe that brings disaster / But peaceful olive in ...»
«I like a storm at May’s beginning. / When Spring’s first thunder with wild cries. / As though in frolic gaily spinning / Rumbles all round the pale-blue skies. Then the young thunderbolts are clanging. / Rain splashes, up the dust is borne. / From dripping boughs bright pearls are han...»