Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов

III
 
 
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
 
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
 
Our ministering two angels look surprise
 
On one another, as they strike athwart
 
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
 
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
 
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
 
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part
 
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
 
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
 
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through
 
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
 
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew, —
 
And Death must dig the level where these agree.
 
 
XIV
 
 
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
 
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say,
 
‘I love her for her smile — her look — her way
 
Of speaking gently — for a trick of thought
 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’ —
 
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought,
 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
 
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry, —
 
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
 
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
 
Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.
 
 
XXI
 
 
Say over again, and yet once over again,
 
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
 
Should seem ‘a cuckoo song,’ as thou dost treat it,
 
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain,
 
Cry, ‘Speak once more — thou lovest!’ Who can fear
 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
 
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll
 
The silver iterance! — only minding, Dear,
 
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
 
 
XXIV
 
 
Let the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife,
 
Shut in upon itself and do no harm
 
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,
 
And let us hear no sound of human strife
 
After the click of the shutting. Life to life —
 
I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,
 
And feel as safe as guarded by a charm
 
Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife
 
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still
 
The lilies of our lives may reassure
 
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
 
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,
 
Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill.
 
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.
 
 
XXVI
 
 
I lived with visions for my company
 
Instead of men and women, years ago,
 
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
 
A sweeter music than they played to me.
 
But soon their trailing purple was not free
 
Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,
 
And I myself grew faint and blind below
 
Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come — to be,
 
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
 
Their songs, their splendours (better, yet the same,
 
As river-water hallowed into fonts),
 
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
 
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
 
Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.
 
 
XLIII
 
 
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
 
I love thee to the level of every day’s
 
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
 
I love thee with the passion put to use
 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
 
With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath,
 
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
 
I shall but love thee better after death.
 
 
Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones THE LOVE SONG Oil on canvas. 1868–1877 The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City
Эдуард Коули Бёрн-Джонс ЛЮБОВНАЯ ПЕСНЬ Холст, масло. 1868–1877 Музей Метрополитен, Нью-Йорк
  
ИЗ ЦИКЛА «СОНЕТЫ С ПОРТУГАЛЬСКОГО»
 
I
 
 
Я вспоминала строки Феокрита
 
О череде блаженных, щедрых лет,
 
Что смертным в дар несли тепло и свет,
 
И юных вёсен их венчала свита, —
 
И, мыслями печальными повита,
 
Сквозь слезы памяти глядела вслед
 
Скользнувшей веренице тусклых лет,
 
Чьи тени мрачным холодом Коцита
 
Мне в душу веяли — и стыла кровь;
 
Как вдруг незримая чужая Сила
 
Меня, рванув, за волосы схватила
 
И стала гнуть: «Смирись, не прекословь!»
 
«Ты — Смерть?» — изнемогая, я спросила.
 
Но Голос отвечал: «Не Смерть — Любовь».
 
 
Перевод Г. Кружкова
 
III
 
 
Неровня мы, возлюбленный мой брат!
 
Столь многим суждено нам различаться —
 
Представь, как наши ангелы дичатся
 
Друг друга, и крылами бьют не в лад.
 
Ты — гость желанный царственных палат,
 
Где песнь твою встречает плеск оваций
 
И блеск очей, с какими не сравняться
 
Моим, когда в них слезы заблестят…
 
Тебе ли из окна следить за мною,
 
Бродяжкой бедной, что в полночный час
 
Поет про мир, объятый мглой ночною,
 
К ночному кипарису прислонясь?
 
Лоб твой помазан миром, мой — росою,
 
И смерть одна лишь поравняет нас.
 
 
Перевод М. Бородицкой