A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Yes, now it's empty here… His silhouette is gone,
it isn't at the desk, nor in the easy-chair.
I his stillness! And the thought that he is here no more
How can you justify, how can you call it fair?

And yet — don't weep! And leave this vacant room!

Go down the stairs, stand by the window-pane,
look hard into the fading blue of dawn.
You see — that's he, there, striding down the lane!

Don't try to call — you cannot bring him back!

But know: he lives, his life will never end.
He had been visiting, and has gone off once more.
Listen — he's singing! Far…around the bend.

[1960s]

625. Довид Кнут (1900–1955). Я не умру и разве может быть [286]

I shall not die. Nor can it be, I know,
that earth without me in the gladsome space
would draw its thread of fire and ever go
along its senseless and its joyful race.

It cannot be that after I am gone

the earth would blossom, wilt, and roll ahead
among the worlds, that trees would rustle on,
that snow would circle, after I was dead!

It cannot happen. I assure you. I

will stubbornly continue on my course,
and when the awful hour has come to die
will push the coffin's lid with all my force,

and I will shout: I do not want it so!

I need to feel this gladness that is blind!
Shoulder to shoulder with my sweet to go!
To give the sun whatever name I find!

No in a stuffy box you cannot lay

one who has spurned all
I want to live, and I shall live, I say
and…

[1960s]

626. Довид Кнут (1900–1955). «Пусть жизнь становится мутней и непролазней…» [287]

Let life grow dimmer, harder every day,
let work become more vain, more useless, let
men we can speak to seldom come our way,
I thank You for the right of living yet.

And let the years…

Indeed it is but nothing that one pays:

a tear and sigh — for fields, for songs afar,
for cherished voices, for a brother's gaze,
and for the air of this rejoicing star.

[1960s]

627. Михаил Лермонтов (1814–1841). Утес

Once a golden cloudlet spent the night
on a giant cliff's great rugged breast;
than at daybreak speeded on its quest,
gaily playing in the azure light.

But a spot of moisture lingered, traced

in a wrinkle on the ancient stone;
lost in thought, the giant stands alone,
weeping softly in his barren waste.

10 Jan. 1961

628. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «Еще я беспокойнее иного…»

То V. Smolensky