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So we run without a cause
’Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips,
We do
not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.
Rooks
There, where the rusty iron lies,
The rooks are cawing all the day.
Perhaps no man, until he dies,
Will understand them, what they say.
The evening makes the sky like clay.
The slow wind waits for night to rise.
The world is half content. But they
Still trouble all the trees with cries,
That know, and ca
The yearning to the soul that flies
From day to night, from night to day.
* * *
All the hills and vales along
Earth is bursting into song,
And the singers are the chaps
Who are going to die perhaps.
O sing, marching men,
Till the valleys ring again.
Give your gladness to earth’s keeping,
So be glad, when you are sleeping.
Cast away regret and rue,
Think what you are marching to.
Little live, great pass.
Jesus Christ and Barabbas
Were found the same day.
This died, that went his way.
So sing with joyful breath,
For why, you are going to death.
Teeming earth will surely store
All the gladness that you pour.
Earth that knows of death, not tears,
Earth that bore with joyful ease
Hemlock for Socrates,
Earth that blossomed and was glad
‘Neath the cross that Christ had,
Shall rejoice and blossom too
When the bullet reaches you.
Wherefore, men marching
On the road to death, sing!
Pour your gladness on earth’s head,
So be merry, so be dead.
From the hills and valleys earth
Shouts back the sound of mirth,
Tramp of feet and lilt of song
Ringing all the road along.
All the music of their going,
Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,
Earth will echo still, when foot
Lies numb and voice mute.
On, marching men, on
To the gates of death with song.
Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,
So you may be glad, though sleeping.
Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,
So be merry, so be dead.
To Germany
You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly pla
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,
And in each others dearest ways we stand,
And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
When it is peace, then we may view again
With new won eyes each other’s truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving kind and warm
We’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
Чарльз Гамильтон Сорли (1895–1915)
* * *
Вот Смерть: не счет разгромам и победам,
Но чистая доска, стакан пустой —
Всё милосердной прибрано рукой.
Да: Смерть — не крах, покорность Жизни бедам,
Стакан разбитый. Нам, кому такой
Дан дивный опыт, все ж конец неведом.
Едины в смерти трус, герой; враг, друг;
И победитель с побежденным. Тени
Твоих не спросят выслуг и заслуг.
Но ляжет на чреду былых мгновений
Оборванную — черная печать.
А свет твоих Надежд, давно уставший,
Вдруг шевельнется, станет прорастать
И расцветет, и это есть ты, павший.
Перевод Д. Манина
Сонет к смерти
Святой служил тебе с главой склоненной.
Бледнел поэт пред царственной тобой.
И ежечасно ждем мы, миллионы,