Читать «A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений» онлайн - страница 149

[1930s]

602. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Покорность

Only the tired are worthy of praying to God, only by lovers the meadows of spring may be trod! Soft is the sorrow on earth and the stars in the sky, softly resounded a «yes» — in the darkness to die. This is submissiveness! Come and bend over me now, pale maid, wearing the black mourning-veil on your brow! Sad is my land, in the wilds of the marshes it lies, no land could ever be fairer for sorrowful eyes. Look at the brownish buds and the damp-grown glen, they are what makes me renounce the pleasures of men. Am I in love? Or just weary as never before? Oh, it is good that my eyes do not shine any more! Calmly I look at the wind-blown grass of the plain, calmly I hear in the marshes a bittern complain.

[1930s]

603. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Читатель книг

Reader of books, I also tried to find my heaven in the knowledge which obeys, I always loved them, — strange ways that wind where neither hope nor reminiscence stays. Into new chapters eagerly to roam, upon the stream of many lines to ride, and watch the growing waves and splashing foam, and listen to the roar of rising tide! But after dusk.. how horrible the shade behind the shelf and icon in the night, and, like a moon that shimmers on the glade, the pendulum — immovable and bright!

[1930s]

604. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Портрет мужчины

His eyes are hidden underground lakes, forgotten kingly halls, with floors untrod, upon his brow the highest shame makes its mark, and he will never speak of God. His lips — they are a purple wound that's made by poisoned daggers. Early silent grown and overcast with melancholy shade, they ever summon to a joy unknown. His hands are full-moon marble, they are such on which damnation will forever last, for they have crucified and used to touch young sorceresses in the ages past His fate is in the centuries that lapse to be the dream of people who would slay, and of the poets; at his birth, perhaps, a bloody comet melted, far away. Within his soul — age-old offences live, within his soul unnamed sorrow's tarry, his reminiscences he would not give for all the flowers of Cyprid or of Mary. His wrath is not a sacrilegious wrath, and tender hue his silken cheeks maintain. And he can smile, and he can also laugh, but weep… he cannot ever weep again.