Поэзия Канады (Блисс Кармен). Уильям Блисс Кармен
age in a heart-beat and die
Under the eaves of night.
What if the small breath quail,
Or cease at a touch of the frost?
Not a tremor of joy shall fail,
Nor a pulse be lost.
This fluttering life, never still,
Survives to oblivion’s despair.
We are the type of thy will
To the tribes of the air.
III
Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the field?
Lord, said a maple seed,
Though well we are wrapped and bound,
We are the first to give heed,
When thy bugles give sound.
We banner thy House of the Hills
With green and vermilion and gold,
When the floor of April thrills
With the myriad stir of the mould,
And her hosts for migration prepare.
We too have the veined twin-wings,
Vans for the journey of air.
With the urge of a thousand springs
Pent for a germ in our side,
We perish of joy, being dumb,
That our race may be and abide
For aeons to come.
When rivulet answers to rill
In snow-blue valleys unsealed,
We are the type of thy will
To the tribes of the field.
IV
Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the ground?
Lord, when the time is ripe,
Said a frog through the quiet rain,
We take up the silver pipe
For the pageant again.
When the melting wind of the South
Is over meadow and pond,
We draw the breath of thy mouth,
Reviving the ancient bond.
Then must we fife and declare
The unquenchable joy of earth,—
Testify hearts still dare,
Signalize beauty’s worth.
Then must we rouse and blow
On the magic reed once more,
Till the glad earth-children know
Not a thing to deplore.
When rises the marshy trill
To the soft spring night’s profound,
We are the type of thy will
To the tribes of the ground.
V
Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the earth?
Lord, said an artist born,
We leave the city behind
For the hills of open morn,
For fear of our kind.
Our brother they nailed to a tree
For sedition; they bully and curse
All those whom love makes free.
Yet the very winds disperse
Rapture of birds and brooks,
Colours of sea and cloud,—
Beauty not learned of books,
Truth that is never loud.
We model our joy into clay,
Or help it with line and hue,
Or hark for its breath in stray
Wild chords and new.
For to-morrow can only fulfil
Dreams which to-day have birth;
We are the type of thy will
To the tribes of the earth.
ЛИРИКА
Я когда-то не мог разгадать -
Всхлип весенний душой не постиг,
Страстных птичьих рулад благодать
И лягушек пронзительный крик.
Но с приходом твоей красоты,
На уста налагая ладонь,
В смертном сердце оставила ты
Свой волшебный, бессмертный огонь.
Море, спрашивал я, отчего
Так пустынно, старо, неприветно,
Среди снежных равнин нелегко,
Ледяная зима без просвета?
Лес зачем это, спрашивал я,
Украшает багряная осень,
Неземными цветами земля
Склоны гор расписала у сосен?
Я не мог осознать, почему
Молодые в мечтах расторопны,
И не думал, что это приму -
Под звездою опасные тропы.
Не сумел догадаться тогда,
Что мужчины теряют рассудок,
Красоту созерцая – года
Убеждался: порыв этот жуток.
Что у Времени взяли с руки,
Полной счастья и гибели тоже,
Непреклонной, как жизни круги?
Но теперь понимаю. О, Боже!
A Lyric
Oh, once I could not understand
The sob within the throat of spring,—
The shrilling of the frogs, nor why
The birds so passionately sing.
That was before your beauty came
And stooped to teach my soul desire,
When on these mortal lips you laid
The magic and immortal