Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Scarce loosed from Crete —

Then, borne on wings of flame

And sleet,

The Euroclydon came.

Strained yard, bent mast,

With fury of his mouth

The blast

Compels us to the South

Canst see, for spume

And mist, and writhen air,

A loom

Of Clauda anywhere?

Balked hopes, fooled wit!

Ah soul, to gain this loss,

Didst quit

The shelter of His cross?

Dear Lord, if Thou

Wouldst walk upon the sea,

My prow

Unblenched should turn to Thee.

Wind roars, wave yelps —

To Thy blest side I’d slip,

Use helps,

And undergird the ship.

As I was carving images from clouds,

And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes

Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries:

“Forbear!” and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds.

“Forbear!” Thou hast no tools wherewith to essay

The delicate waves of that elusive grain:

Wouldst have due recompense of vulgar pain?

The potter’s wheel for thee, and some coarse clay!

“So work, if work thou must, O humbly skilled!

Thou hast not known the Master; in thy soul

His spirit moves not with a sweet control;

Thou art outside, and art not of the guild”.

Thereat I rose, and from his presence passed,

But, going, murmured: “To the God above,

Who holds my heart, and knows its store of love,

I turn from thee, thou proud iconoclast”.

Then on the shore God stooped to me, and said:

"He spake the truth: even so the springs are set

That move thy life, nor will they suffer let,

Nor change their scope; else, living, thou wert dead.

“This is thy life: indulge its natural flow,

And carve these forms. They yet may find a place

On shelves for them reserved. In any case,

I bid thee carve them, knowing what I know”.