Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

I had a dream of wizard harps of hell

Beating through starry worlds a pulse of pain

That held them shuddering in a fiery spell,

Yea, spite of all their songs — a fell refrain

Which, leaping from some red orchestral sun,

Through constellations and through eyeless space

Sought some pure core of bale, and finding one

(An orb whose shadows flickering on her face

Seemed tragic shadows from some comic mime

Incarnate visions mouthing hopes and fears

That Fate was playing to the Fiend of Time),

Died in a laugh ‘mid oceanic tears:

“Berlioz”, I said, “thy strong hand makes me weep,

That God did ever wake a world from sleep”.

I had a dream of golden harps of earth:

And when they shook the web of human life,

The warp of sorrow and the weft of mirth,

Divinely trembling in a blissful strife,

Seemed answering in a dream that master-song

Which built the world and lit the holy skies.

Oh, then my listening soul waxed great and strong

Till my flesh trembled at her high replies!

But when the web seemed answering lower strings

Which hymn the temple at the god’s expense,

And bid the soul fly low on fleshly wings

To gather dews — rich honey-dews of sense,

“Gounod”, I said, “l love that siren-breath,

Though with it chimes the throbbing heart of Death”.

I had a dream of azure harps of heaven

Beating through starry worlds a pulse of joy,

Quickening the light with Love’s electric leaven,

Quelling Death’s hand, uplifted to destroy,

Building the rainbow there with tears of man

High over hell, bright over Night’s abysses,

The arc of sorrow in a smiling span

Of tears of many a lover’s dying kisses,

And tears of many a Gretchen’s towering sorrow,

And many a soul fainting for dearth of kin,

And many a soul that hath but night for morrow,

And many a soul that hath no day but sin;

“Schumann”, I said, “thine is a wondrous story

Of tears so bright they dim the seraphs’ glory”.