Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

O thou art put to many uses, sweet!

Thy blood will urge the rose, and surge in Spring;

But yet!.

And all the blue of thee will go to the sky,

And all thy laughter to the rivers run;

But yet!.

Thy tumbling hair will in the West be seen,

And all thy trembling bosom in the dawn;

But yet!.

Thy briefness in the dewdrop shall be hung,

And all the frailness of thee on the foam;

But yet!.

Thy soul shall be upon the moonlight spent,

Thy mystery spread upon the evening mere.

And yet!.

Out from the mist, the mist, I cry;

Let not my soul of numbness die!

My life is furled in every limb,

And my existence groweth dim.

My senses all like weapons rust,

And lie disused in endless dust.

I may not love, I may not hate;

Slowly I feel my life abate.

O would there were a heaven to hear!

O would there were a hell to fear!

Ah, welcome fire, eternal fire,

To burn for ever and not tire!

Better Ixion’s whirling wheel,

And still at any cost to feel!

Dear Son of God, in mercy give

My soul to flame, but let me live!

I am discouraged by the street,

The pacing of monotonous feet;

Faces of all emotion purged;

From nothing unto nothing urged;

The living men that shadows go,

A vain procession to and fro.

The earth an unreal course doth run,

Haunted by a phantasmal sun:

Thou didst create me keen and bright,

Of hearing exquisite and sight.

Look on thy creature, muffled, furled,

That has no glory in thy world,

In odours that like arrows dart,

Beauty that overwhelms the heart.

I neither hear, nor smell, nor see;

But only glide perpetually.

I seem to feel upon my soul

The slow approach, the gradual roll

Of Darkness older than the light,

Of blackness gaining on the bright.

O wasted is that wine like blood,

Wasted the flesh that was our food!

If in the dimness without strife

I perish, life, O give me life!