A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

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.

[1930s]

605. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Орел

The eagle flew ahead and toward the height,
through starry gateways to the Powers' Throne,
and full of beauty was his kingly flight,
and in the sun his brown feathers shone.

Where had he lived? Perhaps it was a King

who kept him chained, a prisoner, till now,
and he had cried to greet the maiden-spring,
that loved a prince with melancholy brow.

Or maybe in a wizard's gloomy den

when he was looking out the narrow door
the height above enchanted him and then
turned to a sun what was a heart before.

What matters that? The perfect azure heights

unfolded, ever luring him ahead
and ever on he flew, three days and nights
till in his bliss he smothered and was dead.

(…)

Rays of the planets pierced the heavens through
magnificent, divinely frozen rays,
but, never knowing perish, on he flew
and watched those planets with a lifeless gaze.

And more than once worlds tumbled, making room

for more, and the archangel's trumpet came,
and yet alone the eagle's gorgeous tomb
did never fall a victim of the game.

16 July [1930]

606. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Душа и тело [271]