О! I care not that my earthly lot Hath little of Earth in it,That years of love have been forgot In the fever of a minute:I heed not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I,But that you meddle with my fate Who am a passer by.It is not that my founts of bliss Are fushing – strange! with tears —Or that the thrill of a single kiss Hath palsied many years —’Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs Which have wither’d as they roseLie dead on my heart-strings With the weigth of an age of snows.Not that the grass – O! may it thrive! — On my grave is growing or grown —But that, while I am dead yet alive I cannot be, lady, alone.<p>К М…</p>Не в том беда, что я всегда Жил в мрачном отчужденье,Что я забыл любви года В минуту озлобленья;Не то мне горько, что мечты Развеялись навечно,А что меня жалеешь ты — А я ведь только встречный.Пусть из ключа любви текут Лишь слез холодных струи,И годы долгие умрут В случайном поцелуе,Пусть пожелтевший первоцвет Всех двадцати апрелейНа струны сердца гнетом лет Мне лег, как снег на ели,Пусть даже холм могильный мой Покроют дерн и камни —Но, мертвый я или живой, Быть одному – нельзя мне.<p>Fairyland<a l:href="#n_42" type="note">[42]</a></p>Dim vales – and shadowy floods —And cloudy-looking woods,Whose forms we can’t discoverFor the tears that drip all over.Huge moons there wax and wane —Again – again – again —Every moment of the night —For ever changing places —And they put out the star-lightWith the breath from their pale faces.About twelve by the moon-dialOne more filmy than the rest(A kind which, upon trial,They have found to be the best)Comes down – still down – and downWith its centre on the crownOf a mountain’s eminence,While its wide circumferenceIn easy drapery fallsOver hamlets, over halls,Wherever they may be —O’er the strange woods – o’er the sea —Over spirits on the wing —Over every drowsy thing —And buries them up quiteIn a labyrinth of light —And then, how deep! – O, deep!Is the passion of their sleep.In the morning they arise,And their moony coveringIs soaring in the skies,With the tempests as they toss,Like – almost any thing —Or a yellow Albatross.They use that moon no moreFor the same end as before —Videlicet a tent —Which I think extravagant.Its atomies, however,Into a shower dissever,Of which those butterflies,Of Earth, who seek the skies,And so come down again(Never-contented things!)Have brought a specimenUpon their quivering wings.<p>Волшебная страна</p>
