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

That's where I greeted
my twenty-first spring.
To my lips the pungent honey
was the sweetest thing.

Dry branches shredded
that white silk dress of mine.
A nightingale sang on and on
in the crooked pine.

He would hear me calling
and would leave his lair,
gentler than a sister,
though wild as a bear.

I would swim across the rivulet,
run uphill, but oh,
later I would never say
«Leave me now, go».

And you, my friends, you who are so few by now—
with every passing day you are more dear!
How very short the road has grown
and how it used to seem of all the longest way!

Half a day of toil, and half of ease,
azure smoke above the Umbrian hills.
Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze,
loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills.
In the window — one whose dark eyes smile,
under Perugino's fresco, there,
tries to reach a basket for a while
with a sunburnt hand, and does not dare.
In it lies a note for eager glances:
«Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…»

When winter goes — then you will see
my fields and fens that stretch away.
«What beauty!» you will say to me,
— «What lifeless slumber!» you will say.

But, child, remember, in the still
I kept my thoughts, and in that plain
I — restless, sorrowful, and ill —
Have waited for your soul in vain.

And in that dusk I guessed my fate,
stared into death's cold face, and long,
endlessly long I had to wait,
peering through mists that swam along.

But you passed by before my face,
— among the bogs my thoughts I kept
and in my soul a gloomy trace
of that strange lifeless beauty slept.

We walked toward Lido once at dawn,
the rain was gentle, like a net.
Without replying you were gone.
And soon I slept beside the wet.
I heard the waves, their steady falling,
because my sleep was light, I heard
the sounds, that shook with passion, calling,
loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird.
And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, —
came down and floated on the sea,
upon the waves of song, love-laden,
with which you always dwell in me.

I've wakened often in the night
and peered at stairways darkness-filled.
The frosty moon threw silver light
upon my house, where all was stilled.

I've had no messages of late;
the city only brings me round
its noise, and every day I wait
for guests, and start at every sound.

And waked by steps that seemed to pass
at midnight more than once I rose
and in the window — saw the gas
that shimmered in the streets in rows!

Today — again I must await
my guests, and clench my hands, and fear.
I've had no messages of late,
knocks is all I hear.

I was confused and glad of heart,
your dark silk garments teased me sore.
The heavy curtain swung apart,
and voices hushed and spoke no more.

A gleaming ring — the footlights — trace
a wall of fire between us two,
the music burns your very face,
and brings a change in all of you.

And so again the candles light,
my soul alone is blind anew…
Your bared shoulders glisten bright,
the crowd of men is drunk with you…

Star, you have left this world of mire,
and far above the plain you stand…
You raise your hand — a silver lyre
is trembling in your outstretched hand.

Who is the God to whom you pray?
Are you related in your flight
to dreams that come before the night
or anxiousness at break of day?

Or, joined to a star, are you —
yourself a goddess — with the rest
proud of an equal beauty too, —
with eyes devoid of interest

Looking from strange heights up there
down at the shadows touched with flame —
oh, queen of purity, of prayer
and earthly homage to your name?

Above the restaurants, at twilight,
where drunken shouts and laughter ring,
the hot and putrid air is governed
bv the impurities of spring.

Above the dull suburban houses,
above the dust of narrow streets,
a gilded signboard faintly glitters,
and infant's distant cry repeats.

And every night, amidst the ditches,
their bowlers jauntily pushed back,
the city wits parade their ladies
in fields beyond the railway track.

Above the lake the squeak of oarlocks
mingles with women's muffled screams,
while in sky, surprised at nothing,
the stupid disk forever beams.

And nightly, in my glass reflected,
my solitary friend I see,
by this mysterious tangy potion
subdued and quieted, like me;

while next to us, at other tables,
waiters look sleepily about,
and drinkers, with their reddened eyelids,
«In vino veritas!» will shout.

And nightly, at the hour appointed
(or do I dream that she exists?)
a woman's form, in gleaming satins,
moves in the window through the mists.

And slowly walking past the drinkers,
without an escort, as before,
wafting a breath of mist and perfume,
she finds a seat beside the door.

The shining satin tight about her
of strange and ancient legend sings,
and so her hat, with mourning plumage,
and slender hand with many rings.

And caught within this sudden nearness,
I gaze beyond her somber veil,
and there enchanted shores discover,
a faraway enchanted trail.