for the sun.

When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart with no last gazes,

No weak moanings — one word only left in writing for her hands,

Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing praises,

To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands.

Blame me not, I would not squander life in grief;—I am abstemious:

I but nurse my spirit’s falcon, that its wings may soar again:

There’s no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius:

Into work the poet kneads them, — and he does not die till then.

CONCLUSION

Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever

Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell the tears on every leaf:

Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver

From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.

Soh! how still the lady standeth! ’tis a dream! — a dream of mercies!

’Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she standeth still and pale!

’Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses—

Sent to sweep a patient quiet o’er the tossing of his wail.

“Eyes”, he said, “now throbbing through me! are ye eyes that did undo me?

Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone!

Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid

O’er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone?”

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain

Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows;

While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise forever

Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight’s slant repose.

Said he—“Vision of a lady! stand there silent, stand there steady!

Now I see it plainly, plainly; now I cannot hope or doubt—

There, the brows of mild repression, — there, the lips of silent passion,

Curved like an archer’s bow to send the bitter arrows out”.

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling,

And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace;

With her two white hands extended, as if praying one offended,

And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his face.

Said he, — “Wake me by no gesture, — sound of breath, or stir of vesture;

Let the blessèd apparition melt not yet to its divine!

No approaching, — hush! no breathing! or my heart must swoon to death in

That too utter life thou bringest — O thou dream of Geraldine!”

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling—

But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and tenderly;

“Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me? Is no woman far above me

Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such a one as I?”

Said he—“I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river,

Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea;

So, thou vision of all sweetness — princely to a full completeness, —

Would my heart and life flow onward — deathward — through this dream of THEE!”

Ever, evermore the while in slow silence she kept smiling,

While the silver tears ran faster down the blushing of her cheeks;

Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him,

“Bertram, if I say I love thee,… ’tis the vision only speaks”.

Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he fell before her, —

And she whispered low in triumph, — “It shall be as I have sworn!

Very rich he is in virtues, — very noble — noble, certes;

And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly born!”

Элизабет Баррет Браунинг (1806–1861)

Сонеты с португальского

I

Я восхищалась песнью Феокрита

О негах лет, — желанных, сладких лет, —

Что щедро дарят благостыни свет

Младым и старым, снизкой роз увиты.

Я речь внимала древнего пиита,

И яснились, сквозь дымку слез прошед,

Все скорби лет, печальных, сладких лет,

Что на меня упали, словно плиты,

И придавили. Плача, различила

Я за спиной Виденье (стыла кровь) —

Длань за власы меня назад тащила.

И властный голос рек: «Не прекословь!

Кто я, ответь!» — «Ты — Смерть», — я проронила.

Сребром звенел ответ: «Не Смерть — Любовь».

Перевод А. Парина

III

О сердце царственное, мы с тобой

Так непохожи. Так мы друг для друга

Чужды во всем! И ангел мой и твой

Недоуменья, верно, и испуга

Полны, встречаясь в бездне голубой.

Певец я нищий. Т ж иного круга,

Гость королев. Тебе дано судьбой

Им петь в часы их празднеств и досуга.

И в сотнях ярких глаз ты будишь грезы.

Мои и глаза и в миг, когда в них слезы,

Сияют — всё ж не так ярки! Опять

Зачем со мной ты? На тебе ведь мирро,

Роса на мне, мне холодно и сиро…

И только смерть нас может уравнять.

Перевод М. Цетлина и И. Астрова

VI

Уйди. Хоть понимаю: мне — стоять

В твоей тени отныне. Минул срок,

Когда дела могла я на порог

Своей отдельной жизни созывать

Сама, когда могла я подымать

Навстречу солнцу руки без тревог,

Без ощущений тех, что превозмог