Дом на холме. Эдвин Арлингтон Робинсон

      A melancholy face Charles Carville had,

      But not so melancholy as it seemed,

      When once you knew him, for his mouth redeemed

      His insufficient eyes, forever sad:

      In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad,

      Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed;

      His mouth was all of him that ever beamed,

      His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad.

      He never was a fellow that said much,

      And half of what he did say was not heard

      By many of us: we were out of touch

      With all his whims and all his theories

      Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his

      Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word.

      Печальный вид имел всегда Чарльз Карвилл,

      Хотя для тех, кто лучше знал его,

      Улыбку на лице себе оставил,

      Смягчая тем грусть взгляда своего.

      В глазах его ни радости, ни страсти,

      Они всегда печальны и грустны,

      Его улыбка светится так счастьем,

      Его глаза печальны и пусты.

      Живя, он много слов не говорил,

      И половину слов не разбирали;

      Казался странным нам, пока он жил;

      И мы его всегда не понимали,

      Пока не умер он. И в этот раз

      Слова услышим опустевших глаз.

      The Master played the bishop's pawn,

      For jest, while Atherton looked on;

      The master played this way and that,

      And Atherton, amazed thereat,

      Said "Now I have a thing in view

      That will enlighten one or two,

      And make a difference or so

      In what it is they do not know."

      The morning stars together sang

      And forth a mighty music rang —

      Not heard by many, save as told

      Again through magic manifold

      By such a few as have to play

      For others, in the Master's way,

      The music that the Master made

      When all the morning stars obeyed.

      Atherton played the bishop's pawn

      While more than one or two looked on;

      Atherton played this way and that,

      And many a friend, amused thereat,

      Went on about his business

      Nor cared for Atherton the less;

      A few stood longer by the game,

      With Atherton to them the same.

      The morning stars are singing still,

      To crown, to challenge, and to kill;

      And if perforce there falls a voice

      On pious ears that have no choice

      Except to urge an erring hand

      To wreak its homage on the land,

      Who of us that is worth his while

      Will, if he listen, more than smile?

      Who of us, being what he is,

      May scoff at others' ecstasies?

      However we may shine to-day,

      More-shining ones are on the way;

      And so it were not wholly well

      To be at odds with Azrael, —

      Nor were it kind of any one

      To sing the end of Atherton.

      Магистр сыграл слоновой пешкой

      Не ради смысла, а в насмешку.

      Сыграл магистр, и Атертон

      Был ходом крайне изумлен,

      Сказав, пугаясь и бледнея:

      «Теперь есть новая идея,

      И всех немудрых просветит

      Мой занимательный гамбит!»

      И восходящие звезды плавно

      Сливались с музыкой органа,

      Ее магический поток

      Слышит не молодой игрок,

      А тот, кто, как Магистр, в насмешку

      Толпу заводит на поддержку

      В момент, побеждена когда

      Восходящая звезда.

      И Атертон слоновой пешкой

      Сыграл, соперники, опешив,

      Понять не могут суть идеи.

      Толпой на партии глазеют

      Ошеломленные друзья.

      Движенья