Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов - Теннисон Альфред

John Everett Millais ST AGNES’ EVE Engraved by Dalziel Brothers Reproduced in: Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poems. London, 1857Джон Эверетт Миллес КАНУН СВЯТОЙ АГНЕССЫ Гравюра изготовлена фирмой «Дэлзил Бразерз» Воспроизведена в книге: Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poems. London, 1857

КАНУН СВЯТОЙ АГНЕССЫ

Подлунным светом снег блестит,     В морозной мгле, как дым, Мое дыханье ввысь летит —     Лети, душа, за ним. Все резче тени на снегу     От монастырских стен, Все ближе час, когда смогу     Земной покинуть плен, Чиста отныне и навек,     Как этот лунный свет, Как этот нежный первоцвет,     Что на груди согрет. Как белый мой наряд не бел     Пред снежной белизной, Как огонек свечи несмел     В сравнении с луной, Так и душа моя темна     Перед душой Твоей, Так и земная жизнь бедна     Пред той, что ждет за ней. О, расстели передо мной     Колючих звезд поток, Введи сверкающей звездой     В небесный Твой чертог! И я иду к златым вратам     В бездонной вышине, И вспышки звезд то тут, то там     Путь освещают мне, Все выше, дальше — и врата     Распахнуты, и вот Пред Женихом, светла, чиста,     Невеста предстает. Безбрежный вечности покой     Торжественен и тих. Сʽвет над равниною морской —     С невестою Жених! Перевод О. Полей

MARIANA

ʽMariana in the moated grange.’

— Measure for Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plots     Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots     That held the pear to the garden-wall. The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:     Unlifted was the clinking latch;     Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.          She only said, ʽMy life is dreary,               He cometh not,’ she said;          She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               I would that I were dead!’ Her tears fell with the dews at even;     Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven,     Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats,     When thickest dark did trance the sky,     She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats.          She only said, The night is dreary,               He cometh not,’ she said;          She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               I would that I were dead!’ Upon the middle of the night,     Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light:     From the dark fen the oxen’s low Came to her: without hope of change,     In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,     Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange.          She only said, ‘The day is dreary,               He cometh not,’ she said;          She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,                I would that I were dead!’ About a stone-cast from the wall     A sluice with blacken’d waters slept, And o’er it many, round and small,     The cluster’d marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,     All silver-green with gnarled bark:     For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray.          She only said, ‘My life is dreary,               He cometh not,’ she said;          She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               I would that I were dead!’ And ever when the moon was low,     And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro,     She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low,     And wild winds bound within their cell,     The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow.          She only said, ‘The night is dreary,               He cometh not,’ she said;          She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               I would that I were dead!’ All day within the dreamy house,     The doors upon their hinges creak’d; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse     Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d, Or from the crevice peer’d about.     Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,     Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without.          She only said, ‘My life is dreary,               He cometh not,’ she said;          She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               I would that I were dead!’ The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,     The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof     The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour     When the thick-moted sunbeam lay     Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower.          Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,               He will not come,’ she said;          She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               Oh God, that I were dead!’