Память о мечте

The candle to the half-way mark has guttered,
But he's not noticed, pondering on his lines.
Odd words, like some strange oaths, he's often muttered,
And led them, ranged in rows, to future times.

He's changed, for fountain-pen, the quill out-dated,

No candle, but a bulb sees what he wrote;
Himself he was tormented, good created,
And fought against the bad. He was a poet.

The editor, and his own wife, have tricked him,

The censors everywhere false meaning sought.
He chiseled out his words, like hieroglyphics
Which the Egyptian slaves in stone have wrought.

He died in bed, or underfoot was trodden —

Here slain in duel, and there stabbed in the dark.
He has been famous, and has been forgotten,
But till this day his quill-pen still is squeaking,
And till this day his candle still is gleaming
And guttering only to the half-way mark.

Paradox

The universe knows nothing of poor harvests.
It's like a restless, ever-questing genius.
How readily blaze the hydrogen candles harnessed,
And gutter with the heavy wax of helium.

O orbs, a myriad years you have been burning,

And knowing-maybe not-of my existence;
So distant, but so generous in your nursing,
You poured upon me warmth and light insistent.

Half-way towards the universe of mystery,

Not sparing tired limbs, the earth I've trod.
While still my time has not passed into history,
As deathless and omnipotent as God.

I make, unmake, and remake what is broken

And, celebrating reason's triumph alone,
The doors of cosmic mystery I open,
As though they were the doors of my own home.

…They give the order, and with infinite power

The terrible star of hydrogen ignites,
And changes to a communal grave that hour,
A city pulsing with a million lives.

A cry bursts forth of anguish and amazement

Upon the verge of boundless empty gloom…
The earth is entering on its dangerous age now,
The earth brings forth most painful heavy blooms!

1967

II Избранные переводы

Из английской поэзии (перевод с английского)

Филип Сидни (1554–1586 гг.)

Сонеты

№ 7

Когда природа очи создала
Прекрасной Стеллы в блеске вдохновенья,
Зачем она им черный цвет дала?
Быть может, свет подчеркивая тенью?..
Чтоб свет очей не ослепил чела,
Единственное мудрое решенье
Природа в черной трезвости нашла, —
Контрастами оттачивая зренье.
И чудо совершила простота,
И красота отвергла суесловье,
И звездами сияла чернота,
Рожденная искусством и любовью.
Прикрыв от смерти траурной фатой
Всех тех, кто отдал кровь любви святой.

№ 9