Мария Визи - A moon gate in my wall - собрание стихотворений

I saw a human soul
and gave that soul a song
But now I know its dole:
it will not live there long.

Why do you leave me, when I loved you so?
Where did you come from? Whither you go?
And, far outside the lives and worlds of men,
Tell me, my friend, may we not meet again?

She said, when she had read his book,
That he was fickle; Rupert Brooke,
So full of soul, so rich with thought,
So near the beauty he had sought…
Was «fickle» all that she could see?
And for his depth she did not care?
— Then what he wrote was not for her…
And, maybe, not for me.

In the sunset's orange glowing
How I loved to watch my star—
How I loved to watch it growing,
Coming nearer from afar!
It was brilliant, it was winking,
Shining straight upon my soul,
While the sun's red glove was sinking
Swiftly to'rds its daily goal.
Oh, my sapphire now deserts me!
It has left the Summer skies,
Now a vacant darkness hurts me
When I seek it with my eyes.
Ever northward falling, drowned
Past the gray horizon line—
Star of hope, that I had crowned
For a destiny of mine!

One day I saw a stink-bug small
А-sitting near me on the wall.
I said: «Tray tell me, Stink-bug dear,
What makes you suddenly appear
And light when no one wants you to,
As if the place belongs to you?
Will you not answer me?» I cried.
And, hark! The dirty bum replied,
As he looked up: «What did you think?
— I love to fly around and stink,
Because I know it makes you sore
To see me lighting on the floor,
Or watch me floating o'er your bed,
Or smell my presence near your head».
With this the grinning bug had flown
And left me, wondering, alone.

Oh, school's as great as great could be,
And all my friends around,
But it's Harbin and home for me,
And I am northward bound.
So hurry up, you lazy train,
And Farewell, old Tungchow!
Another day — and home again.
Oh, engine, why so slow?
Above North China's wheat and corn
The mists rise thick and white.
Oh, hurry on towards day, sweet morn,
For I'll be home tonight.
A happy winter this has been,
I love to live at school;
But now it's home, and it's Harbin,
— Enough of life by rule!
I want my home, and I am glad
That ere another day
I'll see my Mother and my Dad,
And Kitty at his play;
I'll have my chum again to kiss,
And I w on't work at all,
And never, never will I miss
The school outside the wall.
There won't be any rising bell,
With which the school awakes;
Instead of that there'll be a smell
Of homemade griddlecakes.
And I can stay in bed all day
Without that dose of oil,
And I can let my tired head
Rest from a Junior's toil.
And, Caesar, I'll forget you soon,
Though you have been my friend.
When will you cease, oh, engine's tune?
When will this journey end?

Alone, when once so many were around,
Who loved me so, and left me now alone!
And now, though once my sleep had been so sound,
I dream all night of faces I have known.
I talk to them of all I saw and learned,
I tell them all I have been thinking of;
I take such pride in praises I have earned,
i take such joy to see again their love!
But w hen the snow is melting on the range
Beneath the heated rays of coining day
Each morning brings too soon the loathsome change
And makes my lonely vision fade away.

Snow clouds came to rest on Baldy mountain,
When the sun had hidden in his den,
— After lights were low and voices quiet
In the valley cottages of men.

With a treasure they were heavy laden,
With the crystal blessings of the fr ost —
Such of which Old Baldy had been dreaming.
Which it loved and months ago had lost.

Only pictures of a Perfect Artist…
Wakened by the morning's early gleam,
Baldy stood majestically crowned,
— And the clouds were floating down their stream

What though passing clouds sent down their shadows?
Baldy's smile was deeper than before
For the soothing, purifying freshness
Which the falling snow had held in store.

The world is but a dancing hall,
Where all the people dance; and all
Can foxtrot, but a mighty few
Can waltz, — and one of them is you.

«Expectantly?» Suppose, you little fool,
A hunchback (but there are none in the school)…
Suppose a wench of some four feet and two
Would, since you ask, decide to visit you …
Or some gaunt giantess above six feet,
Such as the people laugh at when they meet…
Suppose she is bow-legged, and her hair,
Like that of ancient Furies, stands in air?
And let her face be harsh as mortal sin,
Belying any sparkle from within.
She winks an eye, distorts a ghastly cheek,
And then you hear, instead of voice, — a squeak!
Will you at that be able to disguise
The true interpretation of your eyes?
And generously willing to forget
The shock that you from such a sight would get?
But after all, you may be far amiss
And I may be Mister, not a Miss.
I really always hate to disappoint,
But «dazzling, flashing» are beside the point.
«Expectantly»… — You know not what you say!
Yet you may hear from me another day.

…This funny game — this life — is full of things
We guess not of. A mocking bird that sings
At dawn, in June, above your windowsill,
Charming your waking fancies with its trill —
Will fly away, and you will never see
Why it had landed on the neighbor tree.
Better to keep things hidden than unmasked,
Lest answers startle, if the truth be asked;
Kinder to let the goldfish float below,
Than, having caught it, watch its life-light go;
Safer to leave the morning star unfound,
Than, having held it, shatter on the ground…
— Leave, and be gone along the open trail,
Don't watch the sun until its glories pale.
So I will wander on, and so will you,
Our feet still wet with early morning dew,
A endless day still glimmering ahead—
That speaks of warmth and often burrs instead.
… We both are humans. That's where really lies
My sympathy for you; and though our eyes
Have never met, we many times have seen
The other's eyes, not knowing what they mean.
Another life, passed by along the way,
Forgotten in a week, yet near today.
Let us be merry; though the blissful hours
May be but few in this here life of ours.
Let us be happy; though the fairy wand
Touches but seldom each unfailing hand…