К земле Любовь коснулась губ Нежней, чем можно Выдержать, и груб Казался воздух Которым я когда-то жил - Тот мускус был так густ, Что голову кружил, И родники текли вином на вкус, И с листьев жимолости Капельки росы на пальцах я не мог перенести, изнеженным страдальцем. Я жаждал сладости, когда был молод, И лепестками роз Старался утолить свой голод, Но он лишь рос. Теперь же, я заметил, наслаждаюсь поневоле, Вдыхая пепел. Губы просят соли Просохших слез, их пятен. Я достиг поры, Когда становится приятен Мне горький вкус коры. И я, нажав слегка, Отдергиваю вдруг ладонь От влажного песка, Как будто он огонь. Но боль еще слаба. И, вытянувшись смело, Я ощущаю, как земля груба, Всем телом.
Дереву, упавшему поперек дороги
Дверь без замка
вершины, чтобы расширить основу
Пусть думают, что хотят
To Earthward Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things, The flow of-was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Down hill at dusk? I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when they're gathered shake Dew on the knuckle. I craved strong sweets, but those Seemed strong when I was young; The petal of the rose It was that stung. Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove. When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length. On a Tree Fallen Across the Road (to Hear Us Talk) The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not to bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are Insisting always on our own way so. She likes to halt us in our runner tracks, And make us get down in a foot of snow Debating what to do without an ax. And yet she knows obstruction is in vain: We will not be put off the final goal We have it hidden in us to attain, Not though we have to seize earth by the pole And, tired of aimless circling in one place, Steer straight off after something into space.The Lockless Door It went many years, But at last came a knock, And I thought of the door With no lock to lock. I blew out the light, I tip-toed the floor, And raised both hands In prayer to the door. But the knock came again My window was wide; I climbed on the sill And descended outside. Back over the sill I bade a 'Come in' To whatever the knock At the door may have been. So at a knock I emptied my cage To hide in the world And alter with age.The Times Table More than halfway up the pass Was a spring with a broken drinking glass, And whether the farmer drank or not His mare was sure to observe the spot By cramping the wheel on a water-bar, turning her forehead with a star, And straining her ribs for a monster sigh; To which the farmer would make reply, 'A sigh for every so many breath, And for every so many sigh a death. That's what I always tell my wife Is the multiplication table of life.' The saying may be ever so true; But it's just the kind of a thing that you Nor I, nor nobody else may say, Unless our purpose is doing harm, And then I know of no better way To close a road, abandon a farm, Reduce the births of the human race, And bring back nature in people's place.The Bear The bear puts both arms around the tree above her And draws it down as if it were a lover And its choke cherries lips to kiss good-bye, Then lets it snap back upright in the sky. Her next step rocks a boulder on the wall (She's making her cross-country in the fall). Her great weight creaks the barbed-wire in its staples As she flings over and off down through the maples, Leaving on one wire moth a lock of hair. Such is the uncaged progress of the bear. The world has room to make a bear feel free; The universe seems cramped to you and me. Man acts more like the poor bear in a cage That all day fights a nervous inward rage His mood rejecting all his mind suggests. He paces back and forth and never rests The me-nail click and shuffle of his feet, The telescope at one end of his beat And at the other end the microscope, Two instruments of nearly equal hope, And in conjunction giving quite a spread. Or if he rests from scientific tread, 'Tis only to sit back and sway his head Through ninety odd degrees of arc, it seems, Between two metaphysical extremes. He sits back on his fundamental butt With lifted snout and eyes (if any) shut, (lie almost looks religious but he's not), And back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek, At one extreme agreeing with one Greek At the other agreeing with another Greek Which may be thought, but only so to speak. A baggy figure, equally pathetic When sedentary and when peripatetic.In Time of Cloudburst Let the downpour roil and toil! The worst it can do to me Is carry some garden soil A little nearer the sea. 'Tis the world old way of the rain When it comes to a mountain farm To exact for a present gain A little of future harm. And the harm is none too sure. For when all that was rotted rich Shall be in the end scoured poor, When my garden has gone down ditch, Some force has but to apply, And summits shall be immersed, The bottom of seas raised dry, The slope of the earth reversed. Then all I need do is run To the other end of the slope And on tracts laid new to the sun Begin all over to hope. Some worn old tool of my own Will be turned up by the plow, The wood of it changed to stone, But as ready to wield as now. May my application so close To the endless repetition Never make me tired and morose And resentful of man's condition.On taking from the top to broaden the base Roll stones down on our head! You squat old pyramid, Your last good avalanche Was long since slid. Your top has sunk too low, Your base has spread too wide, For you to roll one stone Down if you tried. But even at the word A pebble hit the roof, Another shot through glass Demanding proof. Before their panic hands Were fighting for the latch, The mud came in one cold Unleavened batch. And none was left to prate Of an old mountain's case That still took from its top To broaden its baseMoon Compasses I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause Between two downpours to see what there was. And a masked moon had spread down compass rays To a cone mountain in the midnight haze, As if the final estimate were hers, And as it measured in her calipers, The mountain stood exalted in its place. So love will take between the hands a face....They are welcome to their belief Grief may have thought it was grief. Care may have thought it was care. They were welcome to their belief, The overimportant pair. No, it took all the snows that clung To the low roof over his bed, Beginning when he was young, To induce the one snow on his head. But whenever the roof camme white The head in the dark below Was a shade less the color of night, A shade more the color of snow. Grief may have thought it was grief. Care may have thought it was care. But neither one was the thief Of his raven color of hair.
См. также "Художественные переводы"
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