I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride - Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less, less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl, And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints-of purple and pearl Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl - Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt - now Pain Come never again, For her sodi gives me sigh for sigh And all day long Shines bright and strong Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye - While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. (1844-1845) 31. LELLI Ispolnen upreka, YA zhil odinoko, V zatone moih utomitel'nyh dnej, Poka belokuraya nezhnaya Lelli ne stala stydlivoj nevestoj moej, Poka zlatokudraya yunaya Lelli ne stala schastlivoj nevestoj moej. Sozvezdiya nochi Temnee, chem ochi Krasavicy-devushki, miloj moej. I svet bestelesnyj Vkrug tuchki nebesnoj Ot laskovo-lunnyh zhemchuzhnyh luchej Ne mozhet sravnit'sya s volnoyu nebrezhnoj ee zolotistyh vozdushnyh kudrej, S volnoyu kudrej svetloglazoj i skromnoj nevesty - krasavicy, Lelli moej. Teper' prividen'ya Pechali, Somnen'ya Boyatsya pomedlit' u nashih dverej. I v nebe vysokom Blistatel'nym okom Astarta gorit vse svetlej i svetlej. I k nej obrashchaet prekrasnaya Lelli siyan'e svoih materinskih ochej, Vsegda obrashchaet k nej yunaya Lelli fialki svoih bezmyatezhnyh ochej. (1901) Perevod K. Bal'monta 32. THE RAVEN Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore - While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door - '"Tis some visiter", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Nameless _here_ for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir", said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely", said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou", I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before - On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless", said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never - nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch", I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting - "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! (1844-1849) 32. VORON Pogruzhennyj v skorb' nemuyu i ustalyj, v noch' gluhuyu, Raz, kogda ponik v dremote ya nad knigoj odnogo Iz zabytyh mirom znanij, knigoj polnoj obayanij, - Stuk donessya, stuk nezhdannyj v dveri doma moego: "|to putnik postuchalsya v dveri doma moego, Tol'ko putnik - bol'she nichego". V dekabre - ya pomnyu - bylo eto polnoch'yu unyloj. V ochage pod peplom ugli razgoralis' inogda. Grudy knig ne utolyali ni na mig moej pechali - Ob utrachennoj Lenore, toj, ch'e imya navsegda - V sonme angelov - Lenora, toj, ch'e imya navsegda V etom mire sterlos' - bez sleda. Ot dyhan'ya nochi burnoj zanaveski shelk purpurnyj SHelestel, i neponyatnyj strah rozhdalsya ot vsego. Dumal, serdce uspokoyu, vse eshche tverdil poroyu: "|to gost' stuchitsya robko v dveri doma moego, Zapozdalyj gost' stuchitsya v dveri doma moego, Tol'ko gost' - i bol'she nichego!" I kogda preodolelo serdce strah, ya molvil smelo: "Vy prostite mne, obidet' ne hotel ya nikogo; YA na mig usnul trevozhno: slishkom tiho, ostorozhno, - Slishkom tiho vy stuchalis' v dveri doma moego..." I otkryl togda ya nastezh' dveri doma moego - Mrak nochnoj, - i bol'she nichego. Vse, chto duh moj volnovalo, vse, chto snilos' i smushchalo, Do sih por ne poseshchalo v etom mire nikogo. I ni golosa, ni znaka - iz tainstvennogo mraka... Vdrug "Lenora!" prozvuchalo bliz zhilishcha moego... Sam shepnul ya eto imya, i prosnulos' ot nego Tol'ko eho - bol'she nichego. No dusha moya gorela, pritvoril ya dver' nesmelo. Stuk opyat' razdalsya gromche; ya podumal: "Nichego, |to stuk v okne sluchajnyj, nikakoj zdes' netu tajny: Posmotryu i uspokoyu trepet serdca moego, Uspokoyu na mgnoven'e trepet serdca moego. |to veter, - bol'she nichego". YA otkryl okno, i strannyj gost' polnochnyj, gost' nezhdannyj, Voron carstvennyj vletaet; ya priveta ot nego Ne dozhdalsya. No otvazhno, - kak hozyain, gordo, vazhno Poletel on pryamo k dveri, k dveri doma moego, I vsporhnul na byust Pallady, sel tak tiho na nego, Tiho sel, - i bol'she nichego. Kak ni grustno, kak ni bol'no, - ulybnulsya ya nevol'no I skazal: "Tvoe kovarstvo pobedim my bez truda, No tebya, moj gost' zloveshchij, Voron drevnij. Voron veshchij, K nam s predelov vechnoj Nochi priletayushchij syuda, Kak zovut v strane, otkuda priletaesh' ty syuda?" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". Govorit tak yasno ptica, ne mogu ya nadivit'sya. No kazalos', chto nadezhda ej navek byla chuzhda. Tot ne zhdi sebe otrady, v ch'em domu na byust Pallady Syadet Voron nad dveryami; ot neschast'ya nikuda, - Tot, kto Vorona uvidel, - ne spasetsya nikuda, Vorona, ch'e imya: "Nikogda". Govoril on eto slovo tak pechal'no, tak surovo, CHto, kazalos', v nem vsyu dushu izlival; i vot, kogda Nedvizhim na izvayan'i on sidel v nemom molchan'i, YA shepnul: "Kak schast'e, druzhba uleteli navsegda, Uletit i eta ptica zavtra utrom navsegda". I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". I skazal ya, vzdrognuv snova: "Verno molvit' eto slovo Nauchil ego hozyain v dni tyazhelye, kogda On presleduem byl Rokom, i v neschast'e odinokom, Vmesto pesni lebedinoj, v eti dolgie goda Dlya nego byl ston edinyj v eti grustnye goda - Nikogda, - uzh bol'she nikogda!" Tak ya dumal i nevol'no ulybnulsya, kak ni bol'no. Povernul tihon'ko kreslo k byustu blednomu, tuda, Gde byl Voron, pogruzilsya v barhat kresel i zabylsya... "Strashnyj Voron, moj uzhasnyj gost', - podumal ya togda - Strashnyj, drevnij Voron, gore vozveshchayushchij vsegda, CHto zhe znachit krik tvoj: "Nikogda"? Ugadat' starayus' tshchetno; smotrit Voron bezotvetno. Svoj goryashchij vzor mne v serdce zaronil on navsegda. I v razdum'i nad zagadkoj, ya ponik v dremote sladkoj Golovoj na barhat, lampoj ozarennyj. Nikogda Na lilovyj barhat kresel, kak v schastlivye goda, Ej uzh ne sklonyat'sya - nikogda! I kazalos' mne: struilo dym nezrimoe kadilo, Prileteli Serafimy, shelesteli inogda Ih shagi, kak dunoven'e: "|to Bog mne shlet zabven'e! Pej zhe sladkoe zabven'e, pej, chtob v serdce navsegda Ob utrachennoj Lenore sterlas' pamyat' - navsegda!.. I skazal mne Voron: "Nikogda". "YA molyu, prorok zloveshchij, ptica ty il' demon veshchij, Zloj li Duh tebya iz Nochi, ili vihr' zanes syuda Iz pustyni mertvoj, vechnoj, beznadezhnoj, beskonechnoj, - Budet li, molyu, skazhi mne, budet li hot' tam, kuda Snizojdem my posle smerti, - serdcu otdyh navsegda?" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". "YA molyu, prorok zloveshchij, ptica ty il' demon veshchij, Zaklinayu nebom. Bogom, otvechaj, v tot den', kogda YA |dem uvizhu dal'nej, obnimu l' dushoj pechal'noj Dushu svetluyu Lenory, toj, ch'e imya navsegda V sonme angelov - Lenora, luchezarnoj navsegda?" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". "Proch'! - voskliknul ya, vstavaya, demon ty il' ptica zlaya. Proch'! - vernis' v predely Nochi, chtoby bol'she nikogda Ni odno iz per'ev chernyh, ne napomnilo pozornyh, Lzhivyh slov tvoih! Ostav' zhe byust Pallady navsegda, Iz dushi moej tvoj obraz ya istorgnu navsegda!" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". I sidit, sidit s teh por on tam, nad dver'yu chernyj Voron, S byusta blednogo Pallady ne ischeznet nikuda. U nego takie ochi, kak u Zlogo Duha nochi, Snom ob®yatogo; i lampa ten' brosaet. Navsegda K etoj teni chernoj pticy prigvozhdennyj navsegda, - Ne vospryanet duh moj - nikogda! (1890) Perevod Dm. Merezhkovskogo 33. A VALENTINE VALENTINE'S EVE. 1846 For her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes, Bright and expressive as the stars of Leda, Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling, lies Upon this page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly these words, which hold a treasure Divine - a talisman, an amulet That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure - The words - the letters themselves. Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor. And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre If one could merely understand the plot. En written upon the page on which are peering Such eager eyes, there lies, I say, _perdu_, A well-known name oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets - as the name is a poet's too. Its letters, although naturally lying - Like the knight Pinto (Mendez Ferdinando) - Still form a synonym for truth. Cease trying! You will not read the riddle though you do the best you do. E.A.P. 33. VALENTINA _F_antaziya - dlya toj, chej vzor ognistyj - tajna! (P_r_i nem nam kazhetsya, chto zvezdy Ledy - dym). Zd_e_s' vstretit'sya dano, kak budto by sluchajno, V og_n_e moih stihov, ej s imenem svoim. Kto v_s_motritsya v slova, tot obretet v nih chudo: Da, tal_i_sman zhivoj! da, divnyj amulet! Hochu na _s_erdce ya ego nosit'! Povsyudu Ishchite zhe! _S_tihi tayat v sebe otvet. O, gore, poz_a_byt' hot' slog odin. Nagrada Togda pote_r_yana. A mezhdu tem dana Ne tajna Gor_d_iya: rubit' mechom ne nado! Net! S krajnej _zh_azhdoyu vnikajte v pis'mena! Stranica, chto t_e_per' tvoi vzor, goryashchij svetom, Obhodit medlen_n_o, uzhe tait v stihah Tri slova slados_t_nyh, znakomyh vsem poetam, Poeta imya to, velik_o_e v vekah! I pust' obmanchivy v_s_egda vse bukvy (bol'no Soznat'sya) ah, pust' l_g_ut, kak Mendes Ferdinand, - Sinonim istiny tut zv_u_ki!.. No dovol'no. Vam ne ponyat' ee, - girlyan_d_a iz girlyand. (1924) Perevod V. Bryusova 34. TO M. L. S - Of all who hail thy presence as the morning - Of all to whom thine absence is the night - The blotting utterly from out high heaven The sacred sun - of all who, weeping, bless thee Hourly for hope - for life - ah! above all, For the resurrection of deep-buried faith In Truth - in Virtue - in Humanity - Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!" At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes - Of all who owe thee most - whose gratitude Nearest resembles worship - oh, remember The truest - the most fervently devoted, And think that these weak lines are written by him - By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think His spirit is communing with an angel's. (1847) 34. * * * Iz vseh, komu tebya uvidet' - utro, Iz vseh, komu tebya ne videt' - noch', Polnejshee ischeznoven'e solnca, Iz®yatogo iz vysoty Nebes, - Iz vseh, kto ezhechasno, so slezami, Tebya blagoslovlyaet za nadezhdu, Za zhizn', za to, chto bolee, chem zhizn', Za vozrozhden'e very shoronennoj, Dover'ya k Pravde, very v CHelovechnost', - Iz vseh, chto, umiraya, prilegli Na zhestkij odr Otchayan'ya nemogo I vdrug vskochili, golos tvoj uslyshav, Prizyvno-nezhnyj zov: "Da budet svet!", - Prizyvno-nezhnyj golos, voploshchennyj V tvoih glazah, o, svetlyj serafim, - Iz vseh, kto pred toboyu tak obyazan, CHto molyatsya oni, blagodarya, - O, vspomyani togo, kto vseh vernee, Kto polon samoj plamennoj mol'boj, Podumaj serdcem, eto on vzyvaet I, sozdavaya beglost' etih strok, Trepeshchet, soznavaya, chto dushoyu On s angelom nebesnym govorit. (1901) Perevod K. Bal'monta 35. TO - Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained the "power of words" - denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue; And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words - two foreign soft dissyllables - Italian tones made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill" - Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures", Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write - I cannot speak or think, Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along Amid empurpled vapors, far away To where the prospect terminates - thee only. [1847] 35. * * * Nedavno tot, kto pishet eti stroki, Pred razumom bezumno preklonyayas', Provozglashal ideyu "sily slov" - On otrical, raz navsegda, vozmozhnost', CHtob v razume lyudskom voznikla mysl' Vne vyrazhen'ya yazyka lyudskogo: I vot, kak by smeyas' nad pohval'boj, Dva slova - chuzhezemnyh - polnoglasnyh, Dva slova ital'yanskie, iz zvukov Takih, chto tol'ko angelam sheptat' ih, Kogda oni zagrezyat pod lunoj, "Sredi rosy, visyashchej nad holmami Germonskimi, kak cep' iz zhemchugov", V ego glubokom serdce probudili Kak by eshche nemyslennye mysli, CHto sushchestvuyut lish' kak dushi myslej, Bogache, o, bogache, i strannee, Bezumnej teh videnij, chto mogli Nadeyat'sya vozniknut' v iz®yasnen'i Na arfe serafima Izrafelya ("CHto mezh sozdanij Boga tak pevuch"). A ya! Mne izmenili zaklinan'ya. Pero bessil'no padaet iz ruk. S tvoim prekrasnym imenem, kak s mysl'yu, Toboj mne dannoj, - ne mogu pisat', Ni chuvstvovat' - uvy - ne chuvstvo eto. Nedvizhno tak stoyu na zolotom Poroge, pered zamkom snovidenij, Raskrytym shiroko, - glyadya v smushchen'i Na pyshnost' raskryvayushchejsya dali, I s trepetom vstrechaya, vpravo, vlevo, I vdol' vsego dalekogo puti, Sredi tumanov, purpurom sogretyh, Do samogo konca - odnu tebya. (1901) Perevod K. Bal'monta 36. ULALUME - A BALLAD The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere - The leaves they were withering and sere: It was night, in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir: - It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul - Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriae rivers that roll - As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek, In the ultimate climes of the Pole - That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek, In the realms of the Boreal Pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere Our memories were treacherous and sere; For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year - (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber, (Though once we had journeyed down here) We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now, as the night was senescent, And star-dials pointed to morn - As the star-dials hinted of morn - At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn - Astarte's bediamonded crescent, Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said - "She is warmer than Dian; She rolls through an ether of sighs - She revels in a region of sighs. She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion, To point us the path to the skies - To the Lethean peace of the skies - Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes - Come up, through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said - "Sadly this star I mistrust - Her pallor I strangely mistrust - Ah, hasten! - ah, let us not linger! Ah, fly! - let us fly! - for we must." In terror she spoke; letting sink her Wings till they trailed in the dust - In agony sobbed; letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust - Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied - "This is nothing but dreaming. Let us on, by this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night - See! - it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming And be sure it will lead us aright - We surely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom - And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista - But were stopped by the door of a tomb - By the door of a legended tomb: - And I said - "What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?" She replied - "Ulalume - Ulalume! - 'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere - As the leaves that were withering and sere - And I cried - "It was surely October, On _this_ very night of last year, That I journeyed - I journeyed down here! - That I brought a dread burden down here - On this night, of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon hath tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber - This mis