A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - страница 86

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yet I was happier and richer far
than all the tombs and castles of the world.

[1960s]

621. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Высох ключ, струившийся в овраге…»[282]

Dry the source that ran in the ravine.
Hot the noon. But take a look again:
in the hollow stump, some moisture still —
fusty water left there by the rain.
Playing with your twig — be very careful
not ot splash it out around the brink —
even though it's pitifully scanty,
someone still may need it for a drink!
After dawn tomorrow some small creature —
squirrel, hedgehog — may come by this rill
and may drink. You too — who knows what happens? —
yet may taste it in a final thrill.

[1960s]

622. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Прощаться всего трудней, потому…»[283]

It's hardest of all to say goodbye,
it is best to be alone to die.
For no one at all to be near, instead
just an empty room, a chair, a bed,
not to see anyone sadly weep,
not to have any small dog creep
from under your bed to lick your cheek,
or a sun ray come through a crack and peek,
or a butterfly dart in the window So
may it not be spring when I have to go!
May I die in the night! When a single star
may fall… and another… again… How far
easier, maybe, to go away
down such an
utterly
empty
way.

[1960s]

623. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Я растерял их по пути…»[284]

I lost them all along the way,
those words 1 failed to clothe in sound.
Like swallows on a winter day,
never again can they be found.
I didn't show them much concern,
so they departed, taking wing.
And yet perhaps they will return
to others, in some future spring?

[1960s]

624. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В комнате умершего[285]

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

I am more restless than another still, —
a word that's said with casual caress,
a furtive glance — still send through me a thrill,
alike a tender glance or vivid dress.
And even yet to me it is a pleasure
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