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But tell me, or ye passed them by, what saw ye on the wey?”
“My man, I rocked the rovin gulls that sail abuin the Tay”.
“But saw ye naething, leein Wind, afore ye cam to Fife?
There’s muckle lyin ’yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life”.
“My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hi
“O Wind, forgie a hameless loon that ca
“An far abuin the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o beatin wings, wi their heids towards the sea,
An aye their cryin voices trailed ahint them on the air”.
“O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!”
Вайолет Джейкоб (1863–1946)
Дикие гуси
— Скажи, ревущий Ветер, мне, что видел ты в пути —
Мой север, что всегда со мной, ты мог насквозь пройти!
Давно я Англию топчу, мой путь на север твёрд.
— Мой друг, я слышал, как прилив ласкает Фёрт-о-Форт.
— Да, Ветер, в радость слышать мне, что так силён прилив,
Я ощутил бы, как туман полз, берег вновь укрыв.
Но расскажи, каких ещё принёс ты мне вестей?
— Мой друг, я чаек разметал, что населяют Тей.
— Почто ж рыдал ты, в Файф летя, о Ветер ледяной?
За Теем многое лежит, что не поймёт живой.
— Мой друг, я Ангуса холмы ласкал — ты их забыл.
— О Ветер, пощади меня, я слеп от слёз бродил!
— Над долом Ангуса видал я диких строй гусей,
И крылья хлопали, неся их в сторону морей,
и пела скорбь их голосов от края бытия.
— O Ветер, сжалься, замолчи, внимать не смею я!
Перевод Б. Булаева
Stephen Phillips (1864–1915)
* * *
O thou art put to many uses, sweet!
Thy blood will urge the rose, and surge in Spring;
But yet!.
And all the blue of thee will go to the sky,
And all thy laughter to the rivers run;
But yet!.
Thy tumbling hair will in the West be seen,
And all thy trembling bosom in the dawn;
But yet!.
Thy briefness in the dewdrop shall be hung,
And all the frailness of thee on the foam;
But yet!.
Thy soul shall be upon the moonlight spent,
Thy mystery spread upon the evening mere.
And yet!.
The New “De Profundis”
Out from the mist, the mist, I cry;
Let not my soul of numbness die!
My life is furled in every limb,
And my existence groweth dim.
My senses all like weapons rust,
And lie disused in endless dust.
I may not love, I may not hate;
Slowly I feel my life abate.
O would there were a heaven to hear!
O would there were a hell to fear!
Ah, welcome fire, eternal fire,
To burn for ever and not tire!
Better Ixion’s whirling wheel,
And still at any cost to feel!
Dear Son of God, in mercy give
My soul to flame, but let me live!
I am discouraged by the street,
The pacing of monotonous feet;
Faces of all emotion purged;
From nothing unto nothing urged;
The living men that shadows go,
A vain procession to and fro.
The earth an unreal course doth run,
Haunted by a phantasmal sun:
Thou didst create me keen and bright,
Of hearing exquisite and sight.
Look on thy creature, muffled, furled,
That has no glory in thy world,
In odours that like arrows dart,
Beauty that overwhelms the heart.
I neither hear, nor smell, nor see;
But only glide perpetually.
I seem to feel upon my soul
The slow approach, the gradual roll
Of Darkness older than the light,
Of blackness gaining on the bright.
O wasted is that wine like blood,
Wasted the flesh that was our food!
If in the dimness without strife
I perish, life, O give me life!
Стивен Филипс (1864–1915)