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

No pebble in ravenna's sculptured tomb,
nor crimson paint-dab in the Vatican, —
I merely was a wisp of merry spume
upon the ocean's blue and distant span.

But when a sail came toward me, I would swirl
to meet it; I have played with reefs near land,
caressed the body of a sun-tanned girl,
and, tired, dug into the golden sand.

My fleeting course no great event did jar;
for one chance moment was my fate unfurled,
yet I was happier and richer far
than all the tombs and castles of the world.

Dry the source that ran in the ravine.
Hot the noon. But take a look again:
in the hollow stump, some moisture still —
fusty water left there by the rain.

Playing with your twig — be very careful
not ot splash it out around the brink —
even though it's pitifully scanty,
someone still may need it for a drink!

After dawn tomorrow some small creature —
squirrel, hedgehog — may come by this rill
and may drink. You too — who knows what happens? —
yet may taste it in a final thrill.

It's hardest of all to say goodbye,
it is best to be alone to die.
For no one at all to be near, instead
just an empty room, a chair, a bed,
not to see anyone sadly weep,
not to have any small dog creep
from under your bed to lick your cheek,
or a sun ray come through a crack and peek,
or a butterfly dart in the window So
may it not be spring when I have to go!
May I die in the night! When a single star
may fall… and another… again… How far
easier, maybe, to go away
down such an
utterly
empty
way.

I lost them all along the way,
those words 1 failed to clothe in sound.
Like swallows on a winter day,
never again can they be found.

I didn't show them much concern,
so they departed, taking wing.
And yet perhaps they will return
to others, in some future spring?

Yes, now it's empty here… His silhouette is gone,
it isn't at the desk, nor in the easy-chair.
I his stillness! And the thought that he is here no more
How can you justify, how can you call it fair?

And yet — don't weep! And leave this vacant room!
Go down the stairs, stand by the window-pane,
look hard into the fading blue of dawn.
You see — that's he, there, striding down the lane!

Don't try to call — you cannot bring him back!
But know: he lives, his life will never end.
He had been visiting, and has gone off once more.
Listen — he's singing! Far…around the bend.

I shall not die. Nor can it be, I know,
that earth without me in the gladsome space
would draw its thread of fire and ever go
along its senseless and its joyful race.

It cannot be that after I am gone
the earth would blossom, wilt, and roll ahead
among the worlds, that trees would rustle on,
that snow would circle, after I was dead!

It cannot happen. I assure you. I
will stubbornly continue on my course,
and when the awful hour has come to die
will push the coffin's lid with all my force,

and I will shout: I do not want it so!
I need to feel this gladness that is blind!
Shoulder to shoulder with my sweet to go!
To give the sun whatever name I find!

No in a stuffy box you cannot lay
one who has spurned all
I want to live, and I shall live, I say
and…

Let life grow dimmer, harder every day,
let work become more vain, more useless, let
men we can speak to seldom come our way,
I thank You for the right of living yet.

And let the years…

Indeed it is but nothing that one pays:
a tear and sigh — for fields, for songs afar,
for cherished voices, for a brother's gaze,
and for the air of this rejoicing star.

Once a golden cloudlet spent the night
on a giant cliff's great rugged breast;
than at daybreak speeded on its quest,
gaily playing in the azure light.

But a spot of moisture lingered, traced
in a wrinkle on the ancient stone;
lost in thought, the giant stands alone,
weeping softly in his barren waste.

I am more restless than another still, —
a word that's said with casual caress,
a furtive glance — still send through me a thrill,
alike a tender glance or vivid dress.

And even yet to me it is a pleasure
to… a fancy, strange and far away
to suffer from a rime, at times to measure
emotion, caught by chance upon the way

But every day the soul does stricter get,
obeys the ray that moves not, and I feel
that I will teach that same emotion yet,
though that same rime to be of sadless zeal

And soon, I know, — thanks to the God who takes
us onward with a wisdom-guided palm, —
we will exchange anxiety that aches
for heavenly and light-abounding calm.

More verse? What for? Already from their curse
the soul is sad, as unsuccessful verse.
Already, when I barely close my eyes —
comparisons to you before me rise.