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Кристина Джорджина Россетти

              Christina Georgina Rossetti
              1830 - 1894

Базар гномов


A Better Resurrection

A Birthday

A Daughter Of Eve

A Song Of Flight

A Study (A Soul)

An Apple-Gathering

At Home

Bride Song

By The Sea

De Profundis

Dream Land


Goblin Market

In An Artist's Studio

Italia, Io Ti Saluto!

"No, Thank You, John."

On The Wing

Passing Away, Saith The World



The Three Enemies

Three Seasons


When I Am Dead, My Dearest

                                                                       к началу страницы
              A Birthday

                   My heart is like a singing bird 
                   Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; 
                   My heart is like an apple-tree 
                   Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
                   My heart is like a rainbow shell 
                   That paddles in a halcyon sea; 
                   My heart is gladder than all these, 
                   Because my love is come to me. 
                   Raise me a daïs of silk and down; 
                   Hang it with vair and purple dyes; 
                   Carve it in doves and pomegranates, 
                   And peacocks with a hundred eyes; 
                   Work it in gold and silver grapes, 
                   In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; 
                   Because the birthday of my life 
                   Is come, my love is come to me.


                                                                       к началу страницы
              Bride Song

                   Too late for love, too late for joy, 
                   Too late, too late! 
                   You loitered on the road too long, 
                   You trifled at the gate: 
                   The enchanted dove upon her branch 
                   Died without a mate; 
                   The enchanted princess in her tower 
                   Slept, died, behind the grate; 
                   Her heart was starving all this while 
                   You made it wait. 
                   Ten years ago, five years ago, 
                   One year ago, 
                   Even then you had arrived in time, 
                   Though somewhat slow; 
                   Then you had known her living face 
                   Which now you cannot know: 
                   The frozen fountain would have leaped, 
                   The buds gone on to blow, 
                   The warm south wind would have awaked 
                   To melt the snow. 
                   Is she fair now as she lies? 
                   Once she was fair; 
                   Meet queen for any kingly king, 
                   With gold-dust on her hair, 
                   Now these are poppies in her locks, 
                   White poppies she must wear; 
                   Must wear a veil to shroud her face 
                   And the want graven there: 
                   Or is the hunger fed at length, 
                   Cast off the care? 
                   We never saw her with a smile 
                   Or with a frown; 
                   Her bed seemed never soft to her, 
                   Though tossed of down; 
                   She little heeded what she wore, 
                   Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 
                   We think her white brows often ached 
                   Beneath her crown, 
                   Till silvery hairs showed in her locks 
                   That used to be so brown. 
                   We never heard her speak in haste; 
                   Her tones were sweet, 
                   And modulated just so much 
                   As it was meet: 
                   Her heart sat silent through the noise 
                   And concourse of the street. 
                   There was no hurry in her hands, 
                   No hurry in her feet; 
                   There was no bliss drew nigh to her, 
                   That she might run to greet. 
                   You should have wept her yesterday, 
                   Wasting upon her bed: 
                   But wherefore should you weep today 
                   That she is dead? 
                   Lo we who love weep not today, 
                   But crown her royal head. 
                   Let be these poppies that we strew, 
                   Your roses are too red: 
                   Let be these poppies, not for you 
                   Cut down and spread.

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              Dream Land

                   Where sunless rivers weep 
                   Their waves into the deep, 
                   She sleeps a charmed sleep: 
                   Awake her not. 
                   Led by a single star, 
                   She came from very far 
                   To seek where shadows are 
                   Her pleasant lot. 
                   She left the rosy morn, 
                   She left the fields of corn, 
                   For twilight cold and lorn 
                   And water springs. 
                   Through sleep, as through a veil, 
                   She sees the sky look pale, 
                   And hears the nightingale 
                   That sadly sings. 
                   Rest, rest, a perfect rest 
                   Shed over brow and breast; 
                   Her face is toward the west, 
                   The purple land. 
                   She cannot see the grain 
                   Ripening on hill and plain; 
                   She cannot feel the rain 
                   Upon her hand. 
                   Rest, rest, for evermore 
                   Upon a mossy shore; 
                   Rest, rest at the heart's core 
                   Till time shall cease: 
                   Sleep that no pain shall wake; 
                   Night that no morn shall break 
                   Till joy shall overtake 
                   Her perfect peace.

                                                                       к началу страницы
              Goblin Market

                   Morning and evening 
                   Maids heard the goblins cry: 
                   "Come buy our orchard fruits, 
                   Come buy, come buy: 
                   Apples and quinces, 
                   Lemons and oranges, 
                   Plump unpeck'd cherries, 
                   Melons and raspberries, 
                   Bloom-down-cheek'd peaches, 
                   Swart-headed mulberries, 
                   Wild free-born cranberries, 
                   Crab-apples, dewberries, 
                   Pine-apples, blackberries, 
                   Apricots, strawberries; -
                   All ripe together 
                   In summer weather, -
                   Morns that pass by, 
                   Fair eves that fly; 
                   Come buy, come buy: 
                   Our grapes fresh from the vine, 
                   Pomegranates full and fine, 
                   Dates and sharp bullaces, 
                   Rare pears and greengages, 
                   Damsons and bilberries, 
                   Taste them and try: 
                   Currants and gooseberries, 
                   Bright-fire-like barberries, 
                   Figs to fill your mouth, 
                   Citrons from the South, 
                   Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; 
                   Come buy, come buy." 
                   Evening by evening 
                   Among the brookside rushes, 
                   Laura bow'd her head to hear, 
                   Lizzie veil'd her blushes: 
                   Crouching close together 
                   In the cooling weather, 
                   With clasping arms and cautioning lips, 
                   With tingling cheeks and finger tips. 
                   "Lie close," Laura said, 
                   Pricking up her golden head: 
                   "We must not look at goblin men, 
                   We must not buy their fruits: 
                   Who knows upon what soil they fed 
                   Their hungry thirsty roots?" 
                   "Come buy," call the goblins 
                   Hobbling down the glen. 
                   "Oh," cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura, 
                   You should not peep at goblin men." 
                   Lizzie cover'd up her eyes, 
                   Cover'd close lest they should look; 
                   Laura rear'd her glossy head, 
                   And whisper'd like the restless brook: 
                   "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, 
                   Down the glen tramp little men. 
                   One hauls a basket, 
                   One bears a plate, 
                   One lugs a golden dish 
                   Of many pounds weight. 
                   How fair the vine must grow 
                   Whose grapes are so luscious; 
                   How warm the wind must blow 
                   Through those fruit bushes." 
                   "No," said Lizzie, "No, no, no; 
                   Their offers should not charm us, 
                   Their evil gifts would harm us." 
                   She thrust a dimpled finger 
                   In each ear, shut eyes and ran: 
                   Curious Laura chose to linger 
                   Wondering at each merchant man. 
                   One had a cat's face, 
                   One whisk'd a tail, 
                   One tramp'd at a rat's pace, 
                   One crawl'd like a snail, 
                   One like a wombat prowl'd obtuse and furry, 
                   One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. 
                   She heard a voice like voice of doves 
                   Cooing all together: 
                   They sounded kind and full of loves 
                   In the pleasant weather. 
                   Laura stretch'd her gleaming neck 
                   Like a rush-imbedded swan, 
                   Like a lily from the beck, 
                   Like a moonlit poplar branch, 
                   Like a vessel at the launch 
                   When its last restraint is gone. 
                   Backwards up the mossy glen 
                   Turn'd and troop'd the goblin men, 
                   With their shrill repeated cry, 
                   "Come buy, come buy." 
                   When they reach'd where Laura was 
                   They stood stock still upon the moss, 
                   Leering at each other, 
                   Brother with queer brother; 
                   Signalling each other, 
                   Brother with sly brother. 
                   One set his basket down, 
                   One rear'd his plate; 
                   One began to weave a crown 
                   Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown 
                   (Men sell not such in any town); 
                   One heav'd the golden weight 
                   Of dish and fruit to offer her: 
                   "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry. 
                   Laura stared but did not stir, 
                   Long'd but had no money: 
                   The whisk-tail'd merchant bade her taste 
                   In tones as smooth as honey, 
                   The cat-faced purr'd, 
                   The rat-faced spoke a word 
                   Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; 
                   One parrot-voiced and jolly 
                   Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly;"  
                   One whistled like a bird. 
                   But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: 
                   "Good folk, I have no coin; 
                   To take were to purloin: 
                   I have no copper in my purse, 
                   I have no silver either, 
                   And all my gold is on the furze 
                   That shakes in windy weather 
                   Above the rusty heather." 
                   "You have much gold upon your head," 
                   They answer'd all together: 
                   "Buy from us with a golden curl." 
                   She clipp'd a precious golden lock, 
                   She dropp'd a tear more rare than pearl, 
                   Then suck'd their fruit globes fair or red: 
                   Sweeter than honey from the rock, 
                   Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, 
                   Clearer than water flow'd that juice; 
                   She never tasted such before, 
                   How should it cloy with length of use? 
                   She suck'd and suck'd and suck'd the more 
                   Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; 
                   She suck'd until her lips were sore; 
                   Then flung the emptied rinds away 
                   But gather'd up one kernel stone, 
                   And knew not was it night or day 
                   As she turn'd home alone. 
                   Lizzie met her at the gate 
                   Full of wise upbraidings: 
                   "Dear, you should not stay so late, 
                   Twilight is not good for maidens; 
                   Should not loiter in the glen 
                   In the haunts of goblin men. 
                   Do you not remember Jeanie, 
                   How she met them in the moonlight, 
                   Took their gifts both choice and many, 
                   Ate their fruits and wore their flowers 
                   Pluck'd from bowers 
                   Where summer ripens at all hours? 
                   But ever in the noonlight 
                   She pined and pined away; 
                   Sought them by night and day, 
                   Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; 
                   Then fell with the first snow, 
                   While to this day no grass will grow 
                   Where she lies low: 
                   I planted daisies there a year ago 
                   That never blow. 
                   You should not loiter so." 
                   "Nay, hush," said Laura: 
                   "Nay, hush, my sister: 
                   I ate and ate my fill, 
                   Yet my mouth waters still; 
                   To-morrow night I will 
                   Buy more;" and kiss'd her: 
                   "Have done with sorrow; 
                   I'll bring you plums to-morrow 
                   Fresh on their mother twigs, 
                   Cherries worth getting; 
                   You cannot think what figs 
                   My teeth have met in, 
                   What melons icy-cold 
                   Piled on a dish of gold 
                   Too huge for me to hold, 
                   What peaches with a velvet nap, 
                   Pellucid grapes without one seed: 
                   Odorous indeed must be the mead 
                   Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink 
                   With lilies at the brink, 
                   And sugar-sweet their sap." 
                   Golden head by golden head, 
                   Like two pigeons in one nest 
                   Folded in each other's wings, 
                   They lay down in their curtain'd bed: 
                   Like two blossoms on one stem, 
                   Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow, 
                   Like two wands of ivory 
                   Tipp'd with gold for awful kings. 
                   Moon and stars gaz'd in at them, 
                   Wind sang to them lullaby, 
                   Lumbering owls forbore to fly, 
                   Not a bat flapp'd to and fro 
                   Round their rest: 
                   Cheek to cheek and breast to breast 
                   Lock'd together in one nest. 
                   Early in the morning 
                   When the first cock crow'd his warning, 
                   Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, 
                   Laura rose with Lizzie: 
                   Fetch'd in honey, milk'd the cows, 
                   Air'd and set to rights the house, 
                   Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, 
                   Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, 
                   Next churn'd butter, whipp'd up cream, 
                   Fed their poultry, sat and sew'd; 
                   Talk'd as modest maidens should: 
                   Lizzie with an open heart, 
                   Laura in an absent dream, 
                   One content, one sick in part; 
                   One warbling for the mere bright day's delight, 
                   One longing for the night. 
                   At length slow evening came: 
                   They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; 
                   Lizzie most placid in her look, 
                   Laura most like a leaping flame. 
                   They drew the gurgling water from its deep; 
                   Lizzie pluck'd purple and rich golden flags, 
                   Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes 
                   Those furthest loftiest crags; 
                   Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. 
                   No wilful squirrel wags, 
                   The beasts and birds are fast asleep." 
                   But Laura loiter'd still among the rushes 
                   And said the bank was steep. 
                   And said the hour was early still 
                   The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill; 
                   Listening ever, but not catching 
                   The customary cry, 
                   "Come buy, come buy," 
                   With its iterated jingle 
                   Of sugar-baited words: 
                   Not for all her watching 
                   Once discerning even one goblin 
                   Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; 
                   Let alone the herds 
                   That used to tramp along the glen, 
                   In groups or single, 
                   Of brisk fruit-merchant men. 
                   Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come; 
                   I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: 
                   You should not loiter longer at this brook: 
                   Come with me home. 
                   The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, 
                   Each glowworm winks her spark, 
                   Let us get home before the night grows dark: 
                   For clouds may gather 
                   Though this is summer weather, 
                   Put out the lights and drench us through; 
                   Then if we lost our way what should we do?" 
                   Laura turn'd cold as stone 
                   To find her sister heard that cry alone, 
                   That goblin cry, 
                   "Come buy our fruits, come buy." 
                   Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? 
                   Must she no more such succous pasture find, 
                   Gone deaf and blind? 
                   Her tree of life droop'd from the root: 
                   She said not one word in her heart's sore ache; 
                   But peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning, 
                   Trudg'd home, her pitcher dripping all the way; 
                   So crept to bed, and lay 
                   Silent till Lizzie slept; 
                   Then sat up in a passionate yearning, 
                   And gnash'd her teeth for baulk'd desire, and wept 
                   As if her heart would break. 
                   Day after day, night after night, 
                   Laura kept watch in vain 
                   In sullen silence of exceeding pain. 
                   She never caught again the goblin cry: 
                   "Come buy, come buy;" - 
                   She never spied the goblin men 
                   Hawking their fruits along the glen: 
                   But when the noon wax'd bright 
                   Her hair grew thin and grey; 
                   She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn 
                   To swift decay and burn 
                   Her fire away. 
                   One day remembering her kernel-stone 
                   She set it by a wall that faced the south; 
                   Dew'd it with tears, hoped for a root, 
                   Watch'd for a waxing shoot, 
                   But there came none; 
                   It never saw the sun, 
                   It never felt the trickling moisture run: 
                   While with sunk eyes and faded mouth 
                   She dream'd of melons, as a traveller sees 
                   False waves in desert drouth 
                   With shade of leaf-crown'd trees, 
                   And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. 
                   She no more swept the house, 
                   Tended the fowls or cows, 
                   Fetch'd honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, 
                   Brought water from the brook: 
                   But sat down listless in the chimney-nook 
                   And would not eat. 
                   Tender Lizzie could not bear 
                   To watch her sister's cankerous care 
                   Yet not to share. 
                   She night and morning 
                   Caught the goblins' cry: 
                   "Come buy our orchard fruits, 
                   Come buy, come buy;" - 
                   Beside the brook, along the glen, 
                   She heard the tramp of goblin men, 
                   The yoke and stir 
                   Poor Laura could not hear; 
                   Long'd to buy fruit to comfort her, 
                   But fear'd to pay too dear. 
                   She thought of Jeanie in her grave, 
                   Who should have been a bride; 
                   But who for joys brides hope to have 
                   Fell sick and died 
                   In her gay prime, 
                   In earliest winter time 
                   With the first glazing rime, 
                   With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. 
                   Till Laura dwindling 
                   Seem'd knocking at Death's door: 
                   Then Lizzie weigh'd no more 
                   Better and worse; 
                   But put a silver penny in her purse, 
                   Kiss'd Laura, cross'd the heath with clumps of furze 
                   At twilight, halted by the brook: 
                   And for the first time in her life 
                   Began to listen and look. 
                   Laugh'd every goblin 
                   When they spied her peeping: 
                   Came towards her hobbling, 
                   Flying, running, leaping, 
                   Puffing and blowing, 
                   Chuckling, clapping, crowing, 
                   Clucking and gobbling, 
                   Mopping and mowing, 
                   Full of airs and graces, 
                   Pulling wry faces, 
                   Demure grimaces, 
                   Cat-like and rat-like, 
                   Ratel- and wombat-like, 
                   Snail-paced in a hurry, 
                   Parrot-voiced and whistler, 
                   Helter skelter, hurry skurry, 
                   Chattering like magpies, 
                   Fluttering like pigeons, 
                   Gliding like fishes, - 
                   Hugg'd her and kiss'd her: 
                   Squeez'd and caress'd her: 
                   Stretch'd up their dishes, 
                   Panniers, and plates: 
                   "Look at our apples 
                   Russet and dun, 
                   Bob at our cherries, 
                   Bite at our peaches, 
                   Citrons and dates, 
                   Grapes for the asking, 
                   Pears red with basking 
                   Out in the sun, 
                   Plums on their twigs; 
                   Pluck them and suck them, 
                   Pomegranates, figs." 
                   "Good folk," said Lizzie, 
                   Mindful of Jeanie: 
                   "Give me much and many: 
                   Held out her apron, 
                   Toss'd them her penny. 
                   "Nay, take a seat with us, 
                   Honour and eat with us," 
                   They answer'd grinning: 
                   "Our feast is but beginning. 
                   Night yet is early, 
                   Warm and dew-pearly, 
                   Wakeful and starry: 
                   Such fruits as these 
                   No man can carry: 
                   Half their bloom would fly, 
                   Half their dew would dry, 
                   Half their flavour would pass by. 
                   Sit down and feast with us, 
                   Be welcome guest with us, 
                   Cheer you and rest with us." 
                   "Thank you," said Lizzie: "But one waits 
                   At home alone for me: 
                   So without further parleying, 
                   If you will not sell me any 
                   Of your fruits though much and many, 
                   Give me back my silver penny 
                   I toss'd you for a fee." 
                   They began to scratch their pates, 
                   No longer wagging, purring, 
                   But visibly demurring, 
                   Grunting and snarling. 
                   One call'd her proud, 
                   Cross-grain'd, uncivil; 
                   Their tones wax'd loud, 
                   Their look were evil. 
                   Lashing their tails 
                   They trod and hustled her, 
                   Elbow'd and jostled her, 
                   Claw'd with their nails, 
                   Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, 
                   Tore her gown and soil'd her stocking, 
                   Twitch'd her hair out by the roots, 
                   Stamp'd upon her tender feet, 
                   Held her hands and squeez'd their fruits 
                   Against her mouth to make her eat. 
                   White and golden Lizzie stood, 
                   Like a lily in a flood, 
                   Like a rock of blue-vein'd stone 
                   Lash'd by tides obstreperously,  
                   Like a beacon left alone 
                   In a hoary roaring sea, 
                   Sending up a golden fire,  
                   Like a fruit-crown'd orange-tree 
                   White with blossoms honey-sweet 
                   Sore beset by wasp and bee, 
                   Like a royal virgin town 
                   Topp'd with gilded dome and spire 
                   Close beleaguer'd by a fleet 
                   Mad to tug her standard down. 
                   One may lead a horse to water, 
                   Twenty cannot make him drink. 
                   Though the goblins cuff'd and caught her, 
                   Coax'd and fought her, 
                   Bullied and besought her, 
                   Scratch'd her, pinch'd her black as ink, 
                   Kick'd and knock'd her, 
                   Maul'd and mock'd her, 
                   Lizzie utter'd not a word; 
                   Would not open lip from lip 
                   Lest they should cram a mouthful in: 
                   But laugh'd in heart to feel the drip 
                   Of juice that syrupp'd all her face, 
                   And lodg'd in dimples of her chin, 
                   And streak'd her neck which quaked like curd. 
                   At last the evil people, 
                   Worn out by her resistance, 
                   Flung back her penny, kick'd their fruit 
                   Along whichever road they took, 
                   Not leaving root or stone or shoot; 
                   Some writh'd into the ground, 
                   Some div'd into the brook 
                   With ring and ripple, 
                   Some scudded on the gale without a sound, 
                   Some vanish'd in the distance. 
                   In a smart, ache, tingle, 
                   Lizzie went her way; 
                   Knew not was it night or day; 
                   Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze, 
                   Threaded copse and dingle, 
                   And heard her penny jingle 
                   Bouncing in her purse, - 
                   Its bounce was music to her ear. 
                   She ran and ran 
                   As if she fear'd some goblin man 
                   Dogg'd her with gibe or curse 
                   Or something worse: 
                   But not one goblin scurried after, 
                   Nor was she prick'd by fear; 
                   The kind heart made her windy-paced 
                   That urged her home quite out of breath with haste 
                   And inward laughter. 
                   She cried, "Laura," up the garden, 
                   "Did you miss me? 
                   Come and kiss me. 
                   Never mind my bruises, 
                   Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices 
                   Squeez'd from goblin fruits for you, 
                   Goblin pulp and goblin dew. 
                   Eat me, drink me, love me; 
                   Laura, make much of me; 
                   For your sake I have braved the glen 
                   And had to do with goblin merchant men." 
                   Laura started from her chair, 
                   Flung her arms up in the air, 
                   Clutch'd her hair: 
                   "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted 
                   For my sake the fruit forbidden? 
                   Must your light like mine be hidden, 
                   Your young life like mine be wasted, 
                   Undone in mine undoing, 
                   And ruin'd in my ruin, 
                   Thirsty, canker'd, goblin-ridden?" 
                   She clung about her sister, 
                   Kiss'd and kiss'd and kiss'd her: 
                   Tears once again 
                   Refresh'd her shrunken eyes, 
                   Dropping like rain 
                   After long sultry drouth; 
                   Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, 
                   She kiss'd and kiss'd her with a hungry mouth. 
                   Her lips began to scorch, 
                   That juice was wormwood to her tongue, 
                   She loath'd the feast: 
                   Writhing as one possess'd she leap'd and sung, 
                   Rent all her robe, and wrung 
                   Her hands in lamentable haste, 
                   And beat her breast. 
                   Her locks stream'd like the torch 
                   Borne by a racer at full speed, 
                   Or like the mane of horses in their flight, 
                   Or like an eagle when she stems the light 
                   Straight toward the sun, 
                   Or like a caged thing freed, 
                   Or like a flying flag when armies run. 
                   Swift fire spread through her veins, knock'd at her heart, 
                   Met the fire smouldering there 
                   And overbore its lesser flame; 
                   She gorged on bitterness without a name: 
                   Ah! fool, to choose such part 
                   Of soul-consuming care! 
                   Sense fail'd in the mortal strife: 
                   Like the watch-tower of a town 
                   Which an earthquake shatters down, 
                   Like a lightning-stricken mast, 
                   Like a wind-uprooted tree 
                   Spun about, 
                   Like a foam-topp'd waterspout 
                   Cast down headlong in the sea, 
                   She fell at last; 
                   Pleasure past and anguish past, 
                   Is it death or is it life? 
                   Life out of death. 
                   That night long Lizzie watch'd by her, 
                   Counted her pulse's flagging stir, 
                   Felt for her breath, 
                   Held water to her lips, and cool'd her face 
                   With tears and fanning leaves: 
                   But when the first birds chirp'd about their eaves,
                   And early reapers plodded to the place 
                   Of golden sheaves, 
                   And dew-wet grass 
                   Bow'd in the morning winds so brisk to pass, 
                   And new buds with new day 
                   Open'd of cup-like lilies on the stream, 
                   Laura awoke as from a dream, 
                   Laugh'd in the innocent old way, 
                   Hugg'd Lizzie but not twice or thrice; 
                   Her gleaming locks show'd not one thread of grey, 
                   Her breath was sweet as May 
                   And light danced in her eyes. 
                   Days, weeks, months, years 
                   Afterwards, when both were wives 
                   With children of their own; 
                   Their mother-hearts beset with fears, 
                   Their lives bound up in tender lives; 
                   Laura would call the little ones 
                   And tell them of her early prime, 
                   Those pleasant days long gone 
                   Of not-returning time: 
                   Would talk about the haunted glen, 
                   The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, 
                   Their fruits like honey to the throat 
                   But poison in the blood; 
                   (Men sell not such in any town): 
                   Would tell them how her sister stood 
                   In deadly peril to do her good, 
                   And win the fiery antidote: 
                   Then joining hands to little hands 
                   Would bid them cling together, 
                   "For there is no friend like a sister 
                   In calm or stormy weather; 
                   To cheer one on the tedious way, 
                   To fetch one if one goes astray, 
                   To lift one if one totters down, 
                   To strengthen whilst one stands."  


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                   Remember me when I am gone away, 
                   Gone far away into the silent land; 
                   When you can no more hold me by the hand, 
                   Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. 
                   Remember me when no more day by day 
                   You tell me of our future that you plann'd: 
                   Only remember me; you understand 
                   It will be late to counsel then or pray. 
                   Yet if you should forget me for a while 
                   And afterwards remember, do not grieve: 
                   For if the darkness and corruption leave 
                   A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, 
                   Better by far you should forget and smile 
                   Than that you should remember and be sad.


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                   Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
                   Yes, to the very end.
                   Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
                   From morn to night, my friend.
                   But is there for the night a resting-place?
                   A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
                   May not the darkness hide it from my face?
                   You cannot miss that inn.
                   Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
                   Those who have gone before.
                   Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
                   They will not keep you standing at that door.
                   Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
                   Of labour you shall find the sum.
                   Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
                   Yea, beds for all who come.

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              When I Am Dead, My Dearest

                   When I am dead, my dearest,
                   Sing no sad songs for me:
                   Plant thou no roses at my head,
                   Nor shady cypress tree: 
                   Be the green grass above me
                   With showers and dewdrops wet;
                   And if thou wilt, remember,
                   And if thou wilt, forget.
                   I shall not see the shadows,
                   I shall not feel the rain;
                   I shall not hear the nightingale
                   Sing on, as if in pain;
                   And dreaming through the twilight
                   That doth not rise nor set,
                   Haply I may remember,
                   And haply may forget.


                                                                       к началу страницы
              Базар гномов

                   Утром и в поздний час 
                   Девушек звали гномы: 
                   "Купи, купи у нас 
                   Плоды нашего сада: 
                   Яблоки, айву, 
                   Лимоны, апельсины, 
                   Садовую малину, 
                   Терновник дикий, 
                   Ежевику, чернику, 
                   Абрикос, землянику, 
                   Дыни, клубнику. 
                   Спеет плод за плодом 
                   В летнюю погоду. 
                   Заря пронеслась, 
                   Вечер угас, - 
                   Купи, купи у нас! 
                   Спелый виноград, 
                   Сочный гранат, 
                   Смородину черную, 
                   Грушу отборную, 
                   Вишни неклеванные, 
                   Ягоды кружовенные, 
                   Сливы дамасские, 
                   Барбарис огненно-красный. 
                   Тает во рту банан, 
                   Цитроны из южных стран 
                   Сладки на вкус, 
                   Радость для глаз... 
                   Купи, купи у нас".

                   Утром и в поздний час 
                   У ручья среди камышей 
                   Лора слушала насторожась, 
                   Лиззи краснела до ушей. 
                   Под ветром прохладным 
                   Вот они рядом. 
                   Стиснув губы и руки сжав, 
                   В пальцах дрожь и звон в ушах.
                   Тряхнув волной золотых кудрей, 
                   Лора сказала: "Прижмись ко мне -
                   На гномов нельзя смотреть - 
                   Не пробовать нам их плодов золотых... 
                   Кто знает, какая земля растит 
                   Голодные, жадные корни их?"
                   "Купи у нас!" - кричат гномы, 
                   Все ближе и ближе по лугу скользя, 
                   Лиззи воскликнула: "Лора! Лора! 
                   За ними подглядывать нельзя". 
                   Лиззи закрыла глаза, 
                   Зажмурила их еще плотней, 
                   Лора вытянула шею 
                   И шепнула, словно журчащий ручей: 
                   "Глянь, Лиззи, Лиззи, глянь! 
                   Там по кругу 
                   Маленькие люди ходят по лугу.
                   Один с корзинкой,
                   С подносом другой, 
                   Третий с тарелочкой золотой. 
                   Какой лозой рождены, 
                   Волшебные гроздья зреют... 
                   Какие в садах той страны 
                   Теплые ветры веют!"
                   "Нет! - молвила Лиззи, - нет! нет! нет! 
                   Эти дары не для нас!" 
                   Зажмурилась, пальцы вложила она 
                   В уши, побежала к дому. 
                   Любопытная Лора осталась одна 
                   Разглядывать гномов. 
                   Один был с кошачьим лицом, 
                   Другой на лапках крысиных, 
                   Один обмахивался хвостом,
                   Другой с повадкой змеиной.
                   Один мохнатый, пузатый катился,
                   Другой, как волчок, неустанно кружился.
                   Как голубиное воркованье,
                   Звучали их разговоры...
                   Голосами, полными очарованья
                   В прохладную раннюю пору.

                   Вытянув снежную шею, глядит 
                   Лора, как лебедь в плену у волн... 
                   Так ветви вытягивают тополя... 
                   Так смотрят с гибнущего корабля, 
                   Когда оторвался последний челн.

                   Где кончался мшистый луг,
                   Там топтался гномов круг,
                   Выкликая много раз:
                   "Купи у нас! Купи у нас!"
                   Почуяли Лору и встали в ряд -
                   Смирно на мшистом лугу стоят
                   Слева и справа,
                   Смотрят лукаво.
                   Брат - братцу мигает...
                   Брат - братца толкает...
                   Один ей корзинку протянул,
                   Другой подал поднос...
                   Третий венком перед ней взмахнул
                   Из крупных орехов, колосьев, листов
                   (Таких у людей не бывает венков),
                   А тот, что с тарелочкой золотой,
                   Ей целую гору плодов подает.
                   Но Лора стоит, ничего не берет...
                   Денег она не имеет.
                   Хвостатый голосом сладким, как мед,
                   Предложил ей отведать скорее...
                   Мурлыкнул тот, что с кошачьим лицом...
                   Пролаял умильно тот, что с хвостом,
                   Змеиный промолвил два слова невнятно.
                   Один миловидный сказал: "Как приятно",
                   И кто-то по-птичьи присвистнул потом.
                   Белозубая Лора сказала спеша:
                   "Добрые люди, не имею монет, 
                   Красть не хочу у вас, о нет! 
                   Нет медяков у меня в кошельке, 
                   И серебра не бывает, 
                   Все мое золото в том лепестке, 
                   Который осенью вихрь для забавы 
                   Кружит над вереском ржавым".
                   "У тебя золотые кудри есть, - 
                   Ответили те лукаво, - 
                   Отдай нам локон золотой". 
                   Золотую прядь она сама дает, 
                   Она прослезилась жемчужной слезой 
                   И стала плоды золотые есть. 
                   Вкус их слаще, чем горный мед, 
                   Он крепче радующего сердце вина, 
                   Из них струится прозрачный сок, - 
                   Таких никогда не едала она. 
                   Кто мог бы ей сделать теперь упрек! 
                   Впилась в золотой и красный плод 
                   И сок его прохладный пьет и пьет. 
                   Его взрастил неведомый сад, 
                   И вот уж зубы у ней болят. 
                   Тогда кожура отлетает прочь, 
                   И камень видит вместо зерна. 
                   Что же было тогда, день или ночь, 
                   Когда домой пришла она?

                   Лиззи ждала ее у ворот 
                   С ворохом мудрых советов; 
                   "Кто же так поздно гулять идет? 
                   Девушкам вредно это. 
                   Зачем слоняться одной по лугам, - 
                   В сумерки гномы бродят там. 
                   Вспомни о бедной Дженни. 
                   Встретилась с ними при лунном свете,
                   Приняла их подношенье,
                   Плоды она ела,
                   Запах вдыхая
                   Странных цветов нездешнего края,
                   Где лето лето сменяет.
                   Бедняжка при солнечном свете
                   Совсем истомилась потом,
                   Искала их ночью и днем,
                   Найти не могла, посерела лицом
                   И с первым снегом ушла,
                   И даже трава с тех пор не росла
                   Там, где она в могилу легла.
                   Ромашки я там посадила весной -
                   Не выросло ни одной.
                   И ты у ручья не стой!"
                   Лора ответила: "Молчи,
                   Молчи, сестра, я посмела,
                   Я сегодня плоды эти ела,
                   И столько, сколько хотела.
                   А завтра ночью опять
                   Куплю их". И стала сестру целовать.
                   "Я принесу тебе завтра сливы,
                   Целую ветку, с листами,
                   И вишни с особым отливом.
                   Что за финики были
                   Под моими зубами!
                   И ломтики дыни ледяной
                   Заполнили целый поднос золотой,
                   Его не могла я поднять рукой.
                   На персиках - какой пушок!
                   Без единой косточки виноград,
                   Какой аромат струит тот сад,
                   Где они растут, чистый воздух пьют,
                   Словно вечно лилии там цветут,
                   И сама земля - как медовый сок!"

                   Утро встало
                   С первым петушьим сигналом;
                   Словно две пчелки скоры,
                   Встали Лиззи и Лора,
                   Мед принесли, подоили коров,
                   Вымели пыль изо всех углов,
                   Тесто замесили из пшеничной муки,
                   Тесто катали, пекли пирожки,
                   Сбили масло и сливки взбили,
                   Всех накормив, шить сели тогда -
                   Как скромные девушки поступают всегда.
                   Лиззи труду отдавалась вполне, 
                   Лора - с усильем, 
                   Точно больная, точно во сне. 
                   Одна щебетала, как птичка днем, 
                   Другая о ночи мечтала тайком.

                   Уж и вечер недалек. 
                   Сестры с кувшинами пошли к ручью. 
                   Лиззи глядит на сестру свою: 
                   Лора - словно блуждающий огонек. 
                   Кувшины наполнили водой, 
                   Лиззи нарвала красивых гладиол 
                   И молвила: "Солнце садится, пора домой, 
                   Освещен лучами самый дальний холм.
                   Лора, пойдем, все подруги ушли, 
                   Даже белки не прыгают больше вдали.
                   И птицы и звери ушли на покой". 
                   Но Лора ответила: "Берег крутой".
                   Лора ответила: "Еще рано. 
                   Ветер не стих... ни росы... ни тумана". 
                   Тем временем жадным ухом ловила, 
                   Не услышит ли на лугу хоть раз 
                   Знакомые крики: "Купи! Купи у нас!"
                   И звон повторный
                   Сладких речей.
                   Но сколько она ни сторожила, 
                   Гномы не проходили, по лугу
                   Скользя, толкая друг друга,
                   Только одни стада
                   Паслись, как всегда,
                   В самом дальнем краю,
                   А от странных торговцев не осталось следа.

                   Лиззи спросила: "Лора, что же мы ждем? 
                   Они вновь кричат, предлагают плоды. 
                   Мне так страшно, уйдем скорей от беды. 
                   Домой пойдем.
                   Звезды взошли, месяц согнул свой лук, 
                   Кругом светляки замерцали вдруг. 
                   Уйдем, пока тьма не легла вокруг. 
                   Если ветер летучий
                   Пригонит тучи, -
                   Он промочит нас, погасит все огни,
                   И мы будем плутать в лесу одни".

                   Лора вдруг стала, как мрамор, бледна.
                   Она поняла, что Лиззи одна
                   Слышит на этот раз
                   Крики гномов: "Купи у нас! Купи у нас!"
                   Знать, Лоре уже не увидеть плодов,
                   Никогда не изведать сладости той,
                   Стать слепой и глухой,
                   Знать, ствол ее жизни упасть готов.
                   Промолчала она с болью в душе
                   И вдруг домой побежала.
                   Дотащилась едва, легла в постель,
                   И ждала, пока Лиззи уснула,
                   И тогда зарыдала,
                   Стиснув зубы в желании страстном,
                   И казалось, что сердце ее порвется.

                   День за днем, за ночью ночь
                   Лора ждала напрасно
                   В долгом молчанье, в молчанье страстном.
                   Не пришлось ей услышать, как много раз
                   Гномы звали и звали: "Купи у нас!"
                   Не пришлось ей увидеть, как на лугу
                   Гномы плоды предлагают в кругу.
                   Но когда появилась полная луна,
                   Лора стала чахнуть, - все знали: она больна,
                   И ущербный месяц возьмет ее с собой.

                   Перестала она за домом смотреть,
                   По утрам не доила коров,
                   Из пшеничной муки не пекла пирожков,
                   Из ручья не носила воды,
                   Молча у печки оставалась сидеть,
                   В рот не брала еды.

                   Видя, как Лора чахнет 
                   И к смерти стучится в дверь, 
                   Лиззи решила - теперь 
                   Приходит срок;
                   Кинула пенни в кошелек,
                   Обняла сестру и ушла,
                   Через вереск и дрок,
                   В сумерки к ручью,
                   Где тростники шумят.
                   Там она встала и в первый раз
                   В сторону гномов бросила взгляд.

                   Гномы стали смеяться,
                   Увидев, что Лиззи смотрит,
                   Начали к ней приближаться
                   Порхающей легкой походкой,
                   Пыхтя и вздуваясь,
                   С кудахтаньем и клохтаньем,
                   С хлопаньем крыльев и гоготаньем,
                   Ластясь и выгибаясь,
                   Сладко ей улыбаясь,
                   Нежно пред ней кривляясь,
                   По-крысиному, по-кошачьи,
                   По-змеиному и по-собачьи.
                   Тонкий, мохнатый,
                   Толстый, пузатый,
                   С голосом попугая,
                   Щелкая, подпевая,
                   Как сорока треща,
                   Словно голубь взлетая,
                   Словно рыба подплывая,
                   Стали ее обнимать, целовать,
                   Ласкать, прижимать,
                   Протянули к ней блюдо,
                   Тарелки, корзинки,
                   "Вот яблоки ренет,
                   Коричневый цвет.
                   Отведай вишни.
                   Персик кусни.
                   Цитроны, инжир,
                   Отборный виноград,
                   Груши румянцем горят,
                   Сливы прямо с ветвей,
                   Отведай скорей".

                   "Добрые люди, - молвила Лиззи,
                   Вспомнив о Дженни. -
                   Много возьму я".
                   Подставила фартук,
                   Протянула пенни.
                   "Нет, просим присесть,
                   Окажи нам честь, -
                   Твердят ей, оскалясь. -
                   Наш праздник в начале.
                   Ночка теплая, росистая,
                   Звездная, чистая,
                   Бессонная, лучистая.
                   Наши плоды уносить нельзя.
                   Поблекнет пушок,
                   Иссохнет сок, -
                   Аромат далек.
                   Сделай нам честь -
                   Отведай здесь".
                   Лиззи ответила: "Благодарю,
                   Ждет меня дома друг,
                   Что разговаривать долго;
                   Если продать не хотите нисколько
                   Ваших плодов, - вот у вас их сколько
                   Верните серебряный пенни,
                   Я вам платила вперед".
                   Стали они затылки скрести,
                   Перестали петь, мурлыкать,
                   Стали хрюкать и хныкать,
                   Один сквозь зубы
                   Назвал ее грубой,
                   Неучтивой, гордой.
                   Голоса их росли,
                   Приблизились морды,
                   Взоры стали злы.
                   Пошли бить хвостами,
                   На нее наступая,
                   Толкая локтями,
                   Царапая когтями.
                   Лая, мяуча, шипя, дразня,
                   Рвали ей платье, чулки грязня.
                   Дергали больно ее за косы,
                   Нежные ноги ей стали топтать, 
                   За руки крепко ее держать, 
                   Силой плоды ей в рот совать.

                   К водопою коня приведешь с усильем, 
                   Но силой его не заставить пить.
                   Лиззи гномы колотили, 
                   Больно но толкали, нежно просили, 
                   Но не могли ее умолить.
                   Хоть и терзали, 
                   Били, щипали 
                   Руки ее до синяков,
                   Они от нее не добились слов. 
                   Она разомкнуть не хотела рот, 
                   Чтоб ей не набили его плодами, 
                   Но радостно чувствовала 
                   Сок винограда, что течет 
                   По шее струями.
                   И наконец, не в силах бороться, 
                   Злобный народец вдруг отступил.
                   Бросил ей пенни, кинул плоды, 
                   И по дороге, где все стояли, 
                   Словно кто-то шаром покатил. 
                   Кто в землю сник, 
                   Кто прыгнул в ручей, - 
                   Только рябь пошла по воде, 
                   Кто с вихрем беззвучным исчез во мгле, 
                   Кто просто пропал в отдаленьи...

                   Тело у Лиззи болит, 
                   Лиззи спешит своим путем; 
                   Ночь ли, день ли кругом... 
                   По берегу вниз, сквозь колючий дрок, 
                   По кочкам, ямам бежит, 
                   И с радостью слышит, как пенни бренчит, 
                   Звонко ударяясь о кошелек, 
                   Весельем отзываясь в ушах. 
                   Скорей, скорей, 
                   Как будто бы гномы 
                   Следом бегут, издеваясь, смеясь, 
                   Злобно бранясь.
                   Но сзади уж не было гномов,
                   И вовсе не гнал ее страх,
                   Нет, радость лишь поступь ее окрыляла,
                   Когда она наконец, задыхаясь
                   И сердцем ликуя,
                   Пришла к дому.

                   "Лора, - позвала она из сада, -
                   Ты ждала меня.
                   Поцелуй меня!
                   С израненных щек
                   Выпей сок!
                   Выжали гномы его для тебя,
                   Обними же меня, любя.
                   Буду тебе питьем и едой,
                   Делай что хочешь со мной.
                   Чтоб спасти тебя, я в долину ушла,
                   С гномами злобными торг вела".

                   Лора с места вдруг встает, 
                   Руки вскинула вперед, 
                   Лора в горе кудри рвет: 
                   "Лиззи, Лиззи, для меня ты 
                   Плод отведала запретный, 
                   Станешь ты, как я, проклятой. 
                   Жизни юной свет померкнет - 
                   Вместе со мной погибнешь! 
                   Вместе со мной увянешь 
                   В жажде больной и тщетной!"
                   Губами к сестре припала, 
                   Целовала ее, целовала; 
                   И, внезапно хлынув, слеза 
                   Освежила сухие глаза - 
                   После засухи ливень отрадный; 
                   В лихорадочной муке 
                   Еще и еще целовала жадно.

                   Губы у Лоры стали болеть, 
                   Жег ее горечью вкус плодов, 
                   Жаждала яства она оттолкнуть, 
                   Начала корчиться, прыгать, петь,
                   Сбросила платье и снова и вновь 
                   Била руками иссохшую грудь.
                   Взоры стали струясь гореть,
                   Словно факел в руках гонца, 
                   Словно грива коня на лету,
                   Орел, стремящийся в высоту,
                   Если к солнцу орел летит,
                   Знамя, взнесенное в час конца,
                   Если армия вся бежит.

                   Вспыхнул в жилах огонь, грудь огнем занялась,
                   Там, где язва ей сердце жгла, 
                   Сжег огонь эту язву дотла, 
                   Несказанная горечь в нее пролилась.
                   О безумная! Кто тебе выбрать велел
                   Этот душу губящий удел?! 
                   Изменили чувства ей 
                   В этой схватке роковой, - 
                   Это гибнет часовой, 
                   Если город рухнул вдруг; 
                   Молнией поражена, 
                   Это мачта вдруг упала, 
                   Это грозный ураган 
                   Ствол ломает. 
                   Это смерч горою пенной 
                   Пал внезапно в океан -
                   Так она упала.
                   Боль и радость - все прошло.
                   Жизнь иль смерть - что ждет ее?

                   Смерть рождает жизнь. 
                   Всю ночь над сестрою, волнуясь, любя, 
                   Движение крови, дыханье ловя, - 
                   Склонялась Лиззи. 
                   Поила жаркие губы водой. 
                   Прохладные листья ко лбу приложила, 
                   И слезы катились холодной струей. 
                   Когда же заря всех птиц разбудила 
                   И ранние жницы прошли полосой 
                   Туда, где, покрыты 
                   Ночною росой,
                   Колосья и травы под ветром клонились, 
                   Когда, встречая новый рассвет, 
                   Кувшинки открылись в волнах, 
                   Тогда и Лора проснулась от сна 
                   И Лиззи она улыбнулась в ответ, 
                   И Лиззи не раз и не два обняла. 
                   В кудрях седины пропал и след, 
                   Лицо ее было - как майский цвет, 
                   И светилась ясная ласка в глазах.

                   Месяцы, годы прошли.
                   Замужем были они,
                   Сами имели детей.
                   Вечно гнездился страх
                   В сердцах у матерей.
                   Маленьких вместе созвав,
                   Лора о прежних днях
                   Им говорила порой,
                   О невозвратных днях.
                   Говорила им про заклятый луг,
                   Куда сходились гномы в круг,
                   Про их плоды, как медовый цвет,
                   Ядовитей которых нет
                   (Не бывает таких в городах).
                   О том, как сестра ее спасла,
                   Хоть сама под смертный удар пошла -
                   Ей лекарство огненное принесла.
                   И, детские руки взяв в ладони,
                   Она заставляла их повторять:
                   "Какая бы ни была пора,
                   Самый верный друг на свете - сестра.
                   Если ты сбился с пути,
                   Поможет она дорогу найти,
                   Даст тебе силы, любя,
                   Если ты пошатнулся, поддержит тебя".

                   "Goblin Market"
                   Перевод Е. Полонской


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                   Когда я умер, дух мой стал 
                   Искать родного дома сень. 
                   Нашел. Вот дверь. Друзья в саду, 
                   Где апельсины стелют тень. 
                   Друг другу в чаши льют вино, 
                   Закуской сливы служат им. 
                   Шутят, смеются и поют:
                      Всяк знает - он любим.

                   Я слышал их живую речь. 
                   Один сказал: "Мы завтра днем, 
                   Минуя отмель, много миль 
                   По морю отплывем". 
                   Другой: "К гнезду орла дойдем - 
                   Пока придет прилива час". 
                   А третий: "Завтра будет день 
                      Прекрасней, чем сейчас".

                   С надеждой "завтра" все твердят, 
                   В нем светит радости звезда. 
                   У всех их "завтра" на устах, 
                   "Вчера" забыто навсегда. 
                   Их полдень жизни так богат, 
                   А я ушел в разгаре дня. 
                   "Сегодня", "завтра" - все для них, 
                      "Вчера" - лишь для меня.

                   И я дрожал, но дрожь мою 
                   Не сообщил столу друзей. 
                   Забыт! И грустно здесь стоять, 
                   Но уходить еще грустней. 
                   И я покинул дом родной, 
                   От их любви ушел, как тень, 
                   Как мысль о госте, что гостил 
                      Всего один лишь день.

                   "At Home"
                   Перевод Е. Тарасова


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              A Better Resurrection

                   I have no wit, no words, no tears;
                      My heart within me like a stone
                   Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;
                      Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
                   I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief
                      No everlasting hills I see;
                   My life is in the falling leaf:
                      O Jesus, quicken me.

                   My life is like a faded leaf,
                      My harvest dwindled to a husk:
                   Truly my life is void and brief
                      And tedious in the barren dusk;
                   My life is like a frozen thing,
                      No bud nor greenness can I see:
                   Yet rise it shall - the sap of Spring;
                      O Jesus, rise in me.

                   My life is like a broken bowl,
                      A broken bowl that cannot hold
                   One drop of water for my soul
                      Or cordial in the searching cold;
                   Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;
                      Melt and remould it, till it be
                   A royal cup for Him, my King:
                      O Jesus, drink of me.


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              A Daughter Of Eve

                   A fool I was to sleep at noon,
                      And wake when night is chilly
                   Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
                   A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
                      A fool to snap my lily.

                   My garden-plot I have not kept;
                      Faded and all-forsaken,
                   I weep as I have never wept:
                   Oh it was summer when I slept,
                      It's winter now I waken.

                   Talk what you please of future spring
                      And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow: -
                   Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,
                   No more to laugh, no more to sing,
                      I sit alone with sorrow.


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              De Profundis

                   Oh why is heaven built so far,
                       Oh why is earth set so remote?
                   I cannot reach the nearest star
                       That hangs afloat.

                   I would not care to reach the moon,
                       One round monotonous of change;
                   Yet even she repeats her tune
                       Beyond my range.

                   I never watch the scatter'd fire
                       Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
                   But all my heart is one desire,
                       And all in vain:

                   For I am bound with fleshly bands,
                       Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
                   I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
                       And catch at hope.


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              Passing Away, Saith The World

                   Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
                   Chances, beauty and youth, sapp'd day by day:
                   Thy life never continueth in one stay.
                   Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey
                   That hath won neither laurel nor bay?
                   I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:
                   Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
                   On my bosom for aye.
                   Then I answer'd: Yea.

                   Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:
                   With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,
                   Hearken what the past doth witness and say:
                   Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,
                   A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.
                   At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day
                   Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:
                   Watch thou and pray.
                   Then I answer'd: Yea.

                   Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
                   Winter passeth after the long delay:
                   New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
                   Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.
                   Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray.
                   Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,
                   My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
                   Then I answer'd: Yea.


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                   She sat and sang alway
                     By the green margin of a stream,
                   Watching the fishes leap and play
                     Beneath the glad sunbeam.

                   I sat and wept alway
                     Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
                   Watching the blossoms of the May
                     Weep leaves into the stream.

                   I wept for memory;
                     She sang for hope that is so fair:
                   My tears were swallowed by the sea;
                     Her songs died on the air.


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              The Three Enemies

                   The Flesh

                   "Sweet, thou art pale."
                       "More pale to see,
                   Christ hung upon the cruel tree
                   And bore His Father's wrath for me."

                   "Sweet, thou art sad."
                       "Beneath a rod
                   More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
                   The winepress of the wrath of God."

                   "Sweet, thou art weary."
                       "Not so Christ:
                   Whose mighty love of me suffic'd
                   For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."

                   "Sweet, thou art footsore."
                       "If I bleed,
                   His feet have bled; yea in my need
                   His Heart once bled for mine indeed."

                   The World

                   "Sweet, thou art young."
                       "So He was young
                   Who for my sake in silence hung
                   Upon the Cross with Passion wrung."

                   "Look, thou art fair."
                       "He was more fair
                   Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear
                   A visage marr'd beyond compare."

                   "And thou hast riches."
                       "Daily bread:
                   All else is His: Who, living, dead,
                   For me lack'd where to lay His Head."

                   "And life is sweet."
                       "It was not so
                   To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
                   With mine unutterable woe."

                   The Devil

                   "Thou drinkest deep."
                       "When Christ would sup
                   He drain'd the dregs from out my cup:
                   So how should I be lifted up?"

                   "Thou shalt win Glory."
                       "In the skies,
                   Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
                   Lest they should look on vanities."

                   "Thou shalt have Knowledge."
                       "Helpless dust!
                   In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:
                   Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just."

                   "And Might." -
                       "Get thee behind me. Lord,
                   Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd
                   My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word."


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              A Song Of Flight

                   While we slumber and sleep 
                   The sun leaps up from the deep. 
                   Daylight born at the leap! 
                   Rapid, dominant, free, 
                   A thirst to bathe in the uttermost sea. 
                   While we linger at play, 
                   If the year would stand at May! 
                   Winds are up and away 
                   Over land, over sea, 
                   To their goal wherever their goal may be. 
                   It is time to arise 
                   To race for the promised prize. 
                   The sun flies, the wind flies. 
                   We are strong, we are free, 
                   And home lies beyond the stars and sea.


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                   Come to me in the silence of the night; 
                      Come in the speaking silence of a dream; 
                   Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright 
                      As sunlight on a stream; 
                         Come back in tears, 
                   O memory, hope and love of finished years. 

                   O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, 
                      Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, 
                   Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; 
                      Where thirsting longing eyes 
                         Watch the slow door 
                   That opening, letting in, lets out no more. 
                   Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live 
                      My very life again tho' cold in death: 
                   Come back to me in dreams, that I may give 
                      Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: 
                         Speak low, lean low, 
                   As long ago, my love, how long ago. 


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              In An Artist's Studio

                   One face looks out from all his canvasses,
                   One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
                   We found her hidden just behind those screens,
                   That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
                   A queenin opal or in ruby dress,
                   A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
                   A saint, an angel; - every canvass means
                   The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
                   He feeds upon her face by day and night,
                   And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
                   Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light;
                   Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
                   Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
                   Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.


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              A Study (A Soul)

                   She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
                     Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
                   And felt her strength above the Roman sway,
                   And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.

                   Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
                     For dim beyond it looms the light of day;
                     Her feet are steadfast; all the arduous way
                   That foot-track hath not wavered on the sand.

                   She stands there like a beacon thro' the night,
                     A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is;
                   She stands alone, a wonder deathly white;

                   She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,
                     Indomitable in her feebleness,
                   Her face and will athirst against the light.


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              At Home

                   When I was dead, my spirit turned
                   To seek the much frequented house:
                   I passed the door, and saw my friends
                   Feasting beneath green orange boughs;
                   From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
                   They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
                   They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
                      For each was loved of each.

                   I listened to their honest chat:
                   Said one: "Tomorrow we shall be
                   Plod plod along the featureless sands
                   And coasting miles and miles of sea."
                   Said one: "Before the turn of tide
                   We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
                   Said one: "Tomorrow shall be like
                      Today, but much more sweet."

                   "Tomorrow," said they, strong with hope,
                   And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
                   "Tomorrow," cried they one and all,
                   While no one spoke of yesterday.
                   Their life stood full at blessed noon;
                   I, only I, had passed away:
                   "Tomorrow and today," they cried;
                      I was of yesterday.

                   I shivered comfortless, but cast
                   No chill across the tablecloth;
                   I all-forgotten shivered, sad
                   To stay and yet to part how loth:
                   I passed from the familiar room,
                   I who from love had passed away,
                   Like the remembrance of a guest
                      That tarrieth but a day.


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              An Apple-Gathering

                   I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree
                   And wore them all that evening in my hair:
                   Then in due season when I went to see
                   I found no apples there.
                   With dangling basket all along the grass
                   As I had come I went the selfsame track:
                   My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
                   So empty-handed back.
                   Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
                   Their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer;
                   Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
                   Their mother's home was near.
                   Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
                   A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
                   A voice talked with her thro' the shadows cool
                   More sweet to me than song.
                   Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
                   Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
                   I counted rosiest apples on the earth
                   Of far less worth than love.
                   So once it was with me you stooped to talk
                   Laughing and listening in this very lane:
                   To think that by this way we used to walk
                   We shall not walk again!
                   I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
                   And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
                   And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
                   Fell fast I loitered still.

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              "No, Thank You, John."

                   I never said I loved you, John:
                   Why will you teaze me day by day,
                   And wax a weariness to think upon
                   With always "do" and "pray"?
                   You know I never loved you, John;
                   No fault of mine made me your toast:
                   Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
                   As shows an hour-old ghost?

                   I dare say Meg or Moll would take
                   Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
                   And pray don't remain single for my sake
                   Who can't perform that task.
                   I have no heart? - Perhaps I have not;
                   But then you're mad to take offence
                   That I don't give you what I have not got:
                   Use your own common sense.

                   Let bygones be bygones:
                   Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
                   I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
                   Than answer "Yes" to you.
                   Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
                   Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
                   Catch at today, forget the days before:
                   I'll wink at your untruth.

                   Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
                   No more, no less; and friendship's good:
                   Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
                   And points not understood
                   In open treaty. Rise above
                   Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
                   Here's friendship for you if you like; but love, -
                   No, thank you, John.


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              Three Seasons

                   "A cup for hope!" she said,
                   In springtime ere the bloom was old:
                   The crimson wine was poor and cold
                   By her mouth's richer red.
                   "A cup for love!" how low,
                   How soft the words; and all the while
                   Her blush was rippling with a smile
                   Like summer after snow.
                   "A cup for memory!"
                   Cold cup that one must drain alone:
                   While autumn winds are up and moan
                   Across the barren sea.
                   Hope, memory, love:
                   Hope for fair morn, and love for day,
                   And memory for the evening grey
                   And solitary dove.


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              On The Wing

                   Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
                   We stood together in an open field;
                   Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
                   Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
                   When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
                   Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
                   Too weak to fight, to fond to fly, they yield;
                   So farewell life and love and pleasures new.

                   Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
                   Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
                   I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
                   But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
                   Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
                   Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.


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              By The Sea

                   Why does the sea moan evermore?
                   Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
                   It frets against the boundary shore;
                   All earth's full rivers cannot fill
                   The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
                   Sheer miracles of loveliness
                   Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
                   Anemones, salt, passionless,
                   Blow flower-like; just enough alive
                   To blow and multiply and thrive.
                   Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
                   Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
                   All fair alike, yet all unlike,
                   Are born without a pang, and die
                   Without a pang, and so pass by.


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              Italia, Io Ti Saluto!

                   To come back from the sweet South, to the North
                   Where I was born, bred, look to die;
                   Come back to do my day's work in its day,
                   Play out my play
                   Amen, amen, say I.
                   To see no more the country half my own,
                   Nor hear the half familiar speech,
                   Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North
                   Whence I came forth?
                   The South lies out of reach.
                   But when our swallows fly back to the South,
                   To the sweet South, to the sweet South,
                   The tears may come again into my eyes
                   On the old wise,
                   And the sweet name to my mouth.

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    Подготовка текста - Лукьян Поворотов

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