Take from my open hands for your delight
A bit of honey and a bit of sun
As willed to us the bees of Proserpina.
Not to untie again an unmoored boat,
And not to know a shadow shod in fur,
Nor yet to conquer fear of dreary lifetime:
To us remain but kisses in the night,
Fuzzy and shivering like little bees
That fall and die as they depart the hive.
They shimmer in transparent nigthtime breeze,
Their home is haunted forest of Taigetos,
They feast on mint, and honeycomb, and spacetime.
Take then my wild gift for your delight,
A simple wreath of withered little bees
That died as they changed honey into sun.
Возьми на радость из моих ладоней
Немного солнца и немного меда,
Как нам велели пчелы Персефоны.
Не отвязать неприкрепленной лодки,
Не услыхать в меха обутой тени,
Не превозмочь в дремучей жизни страха.
Нам остаются только поцелуи,
Мохнатые, как маленькие пчелы,
Что умирают, вылетев из улья.
Они шуршат в прозрачных дебрях ночи,
Их родина — дремучий лес Тайгета,
Их пища — время, медуница, мята.
Возьми ж на радость дикий мой подарок,
Невзрачное сухое ожерелье
Из мертвых пчел, мед превративших в солнце.
As promised in most truthful fashion,
The sun got in resolved to lounge
And laid a slanting strip of saffron
Between the curtain and the couch.
He splashed hot ochre, having pointed
At nearby woods, the township land,
My bed, the pillow slightly moistened,
Some of the wall behind the stand.
As promised and without deception,
The sun passed through in early morning
In a slanting saffron stripe
From the curtain to the sofa.
It covered with burning ochre
The neighboring woods, village houses,
My bed, the wet pillow
And the strip of wall behind the bookshelf.
( Read more... )
"The sandy cat by the Farmer’s chair
Mews at his knee for dainty fare;
Old Rover in his moss-greened house
Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse.
In the dewy fields the cattle lie
Chewing the cud ‘neath a fading sky;
Dobbin at manger pulls his hay:
Gone is another summer’s day."
- Walter De La Mare