[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
. . . ma così sia. Un suono di cornetta
dialoga con gli sciami del querceto.
Nella valva che il vespero riflette
un volcano dipinto fuma lieto.

La moneta incassata nella lava
brilla anch'essa sul tavolo e trattiene
pochi fogli. La vita che sembrava
vasta è più breve del tuo fazzoletto.

Эудженио Монтале
... пусть будет так. С лесным немолчным роем
беседует рожок издалека.
В открытом на закат дверном проеме
курится нарисованный вулкан.

Блестит монета, выданная лавой,
прижав к столу листки черносика.
Жизнь бесконечной виделась, но, правао,
она не больше твоего платка.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
North of Boston. 1915
16. The Wood-pile
OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.”
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Non recidere, forbice, quel volto,
solo nella memoria che si sfolla,
non far del grande suo viso in ascolto
la mia nebbia di sempre.

Un freddo cala... Duro il colpo svetta.
E l'acacia ferita da sé scrolla
il guscio di cicala
nella prima belletta di Novembre.

Эудженио Монтале
Не вырезайте, ножницы, обманом
тот профиль в памяти моей, не надо,
не делайте его моим туманом,
чтоб мне потом не плакать.

Похолодало... Ранена с налета
акация, и хрупкая цикада
скорлупкой упала
на землю ноября — в болото, в слякоть.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Paul Laurence Dunbar
Christmas in the Heart
The snow lies deep upon the ground,
And winter’s brightness all around
Decks bravely out the forest sere,
With jewels of the brave old year.
The coasting crowd upon the hill
With some new spirit seems to thrill;
And all the temple bells achime.
Ring out the glee of Christmas time.

In happy homes the brown oak-bough
Vies with the red-gemmed holly now;
And here and there, like pearls, there show
The berries of the mistletoe.
A sprig upon the chandelier
Says to the maidens, “Come not here!”
Even the pauper of the earth
Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth!

Within his chamber, dim and cold,
There sits a grasping miser old.
He has no thought save one of gain,—
To grind and gather and grasp and drain.
A peal of bells, a merry shout
Assail his ear: he gazes out
Upon a world to him all gray,
And snarls, “Why, this is Christmas Day!”

No, man of ice,—for shame, for shame!
For “Christmas Day” is no mere name.
No, not for you this ringing cheer,
This festal season of the year.
And not for you the chime of bells
From holy temple rolls and swells.
In day and deed he has no part—
Who holds not Christmas in his heart!

@темы: d, 20, 19, english-american

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Ti libero la fronte dai ghiaccioli
che raccogliesti traversando l’alte
nebulose; hai le penne lacerate
dai cicloni, ti desti a soprassalti.

Mezzodì: allunga nel riquadro il nespolo
l’ombra nera, s’ostina in cielo un sole
freddoloso; e l’altre ombre che scantonano
nel vicolo non sanno che sei qui.

Эудженио Монтале
Снимаю льдинки с твоего чела,
которые ты собрала дорогой
в туманных висях; крыльям нужен отдых:
ты то уснешь, то снова вдруг проснешься.

Уж полдель, черной тенью мушмула
окна коснулась, скупо греет солнышко.
Другие тени входят в переулок,
не зная, где ты — здесь или не здесь.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
North of Boston. 1915
10. After Apple-picking
MY long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Perché tardi? Nel pino lo scoiattolo
batte la coda a torcia sulla scorza.
La mezzaluna scende col suo picco
nel sole che la smorza. È giorno fatto.

A un soffio il pigro fumo trasalisce,
si difende nel punto che ti chiude.
Nulla finisce, o tutto, se tu fólgore
lasci la nube.

Эудженио Монтале
В чем дело, где ты? Факелом на дереве
мелькает белка, бьет хвостом по ветке.
При свете солнца низкий полумесяц
тускнеет. День распахивает двери.

Ленивый дым разорван дуновеньем
но там, где ты, он ветру не доступен.
Все канет — или нет, — когда ты, молния,
покинешь тучу.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
North of Boston. 1915
4. The Mountain
The Mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“This? Lunenburg.”

Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only felt at night its shadowy presence.
“Where is your village? Very far from here?”

“There is no village—only scattered farms.
We were but sixty voters last election.
We can’t in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!” He moved his goad.
The mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Pasture ran up the side a little way,
And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.
A dry ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the pasture.

“That looks like a path.
Is that the way to reach the top from here?—
Not for this morning, but some other time:
I must be getting back to breakfast now.”

“I don’t advise your trying from this side.
There is no proper path, but those that have
Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd’s.
That’s five miles back. You can’t mistake the place:
They logged it there last winter some way up.
I’d take you, but I’m bound the other way.”

“You’ve never climbed it?”

“I’ve been on the sides
Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There’s a brook
That starts up on it somewhere—I’ve heard say
Right on the top, tip-top—a curious thing.
But what would interest you about the brook,
It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter.
One of the great sights going is to see
It steam in winter like an ox’s breath,
Until the bushes all along its banks
Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles—
You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!”

“There ought to be a view around the world
From such a mountain—if it isn’t wooded
Clear to the top.” I saw through leafy screens
Great granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up—
With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn and sit on and look out and down,
With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.

“As to that I can’t say. But there’s the spring,
Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.
That ought to be worth seeing.”

“If it’s there.
You never saw it?”

“I guess there’s no doubt
About its being there. I never saw it.
It may not be right on the very top:
It wouldn’t have to be a long way down
To have some head of water from above,
And a good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone who’d come a long way up.
One time I asked a fellow climbing it
To look and tell me later how it was.”

“What did he say?”

“He said there was a lake
Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.”

“But a lake’s different. What about the spring?”

“He never got up high enough to see.
That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side.
He tried this side. I’ve always meant to go
And look myself, but you know how it is:
It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain
You’ve worked around the foot of all your life.
What would I do? Go in my overalls,
With a big stick, the same as when the cows
Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time?
Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?
’Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.”

“I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to—
Not for the sake of climbing. What’s its name?”

“We call it Hor: I don’t know if that’s right.”

“Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?”

“You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it’s as much as ever you can do,
The boundary lines keep in so close to it.
Hor is the township, and the township’s Hor—
And a few houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled out a little farther than the rest.”

“Warm in December, cold in June, you say?”

“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all.
You and I know enough to know it’s warm
Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.
But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.”

“You’ve lived here all your life?”

“Ever since Hor
Was no bigger than a——” What, I did not hear.
He drew the oxen toward him with light touches
Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank,
Gave them their marching orders and was moving.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
La speranza di pure rivederti
m'abbandonava;

e mi chiesi se questo che mi chiude
ogni senso di te, schermo d'immagini,
ha i segni della morte o dal passato
è in esso, ma distorto e fatto labile,
un tuo barbaglio:

(a Modena, tra i portici,
un servo gallonato trascinava
due sciacalli al guinzaglio).

Эудженио Монтале
Увидеть бы тебя — надежда эта
все убывала;

и я тогда сказал себе: а вдруг
то, что тебя упорно заслонилоэ
имеет нечто общее со смертью;
а может, в нем твое, но искаженное, сиянье вдалеке

(меж портиками Модены
лакея волочили два шакала
на поводке).

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
North of Boston. 1915
2. Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Accelerato
Fu così, com’è il brivido
pungente che trascorre
i sobborghi e solleva
alle aste delle torri
la cenere del giorno,
com’è il soffio
piovorno che ripete
tra le sbarre l’assalto
ai salici reclini -
fu così e fu tumulto nella dura
oscurità che rompe
qualche foro d’azzurro finché lenta
appaia la ninfale
Entella che sommessa
rifluisce dai cieli dell’infanzia
oltre il futuro -
poi vennero altri liti, mutò il vento,
crebbe il bucato ai fili, uomini ancora
uscirono all’aperto, nuovi nidi
turbarono le gronde -
fu così,
rispondi?

Эудженио Монтале
Пассажирский
То было словно бы ознобом,
пронизывающим колюче
предместья, поднимая
к вершинам башен тучи
дневного праха;
словно бы дождливым
порывом, угрожающим
понурым ветлам, —
и долго громыхало в плотном мраке,
где временами брезжит
голубизна, пока не возникает
излюбленная нимфами Энтелла,
текущая неслышно
с неба детства
в грядущее и дальше;
потом пошли другие побережья,
переменился ветер, на веревках
прибавилось белья, еще мучины
на воздух вышли, новые стрижи
под крышами взыграли, —
ведь было так,
скажи?

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
North of Boston. 1915
1. The Pasture
I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
A Liuba che parte
Non il grillo ma il gatto
del focolare
or ti consiglia, splendido
lare della dispersa tua famiglia.
La casa che tu rechi
con te ravvolta, gabbia o cappelliera?
sovrasta i ciechi tempi come il flutto
arca leggera - e basta al tuo riscatto.

Эудженио Монтале
Любе
Котенок в довершенье
теперь, когда сверчок
затих, твоим советчиком становится,
бог очага для родичей твоих.
Ты налегке, ты дом несешь в руке,
укутав, — клетку, шляпную коробку? —
и этот дом плывет сквозь испытанья
ковчегом легким — в нем твое спасенье

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
A Boy’s Will (1915)
32. Reluctance
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Il carnevale di Gerti
Se la ruota si impiglia nel groviglio
delle stesse filanti ed il cavallo
s'impenna tra la calca , se ti nevica
fra i capelli e le mani un lungo brivido
d'iridi trascorrenti o alzano i bambini
le flebili ocarine che salutano
il tuo viaggio e i lievi echi si sfaldano
giù dal ponte sul fiume
se si sfolla la strada e ti conduce
in un mondo soffiato entro una tremula
bolla d'aria e di luce dove il sole
saluta la tua grazia-hai ritrovato
forse la strada che tentò un istante
il piombo fuso a mezzanotte quando
finì l'anno tranquillo senza spari.

Ed ora vuoi sostare dove un filtro
fa spogli i suoni
e ne deriva i sorridenti ed acri
fumi che ti compongono il domani;
ora chiedi il paese dove gli onagri
mordano quadri di zucchero dalle tue mani
e i tozzi alberi spuntino germogli
miracolosi al becco dei pavoni.

(Oh , il tuo carnevale sarà più triste
stanotte anche del mio , chiusa fra i doni
tu per gli assenti:carri dalle tinte
di rosolio , fantocci ed archibugi,
palle di gomma , arnesi da cucina
lillipuziani:l'urna li segnava
a ognuno dei lontani amici l'ora
che il gennaio si schiuse e nel silenzio
si compì il sortilegio.E' carnevale
o il dicembre s'indugia ancora?Penso
che se muovi la lancetta al piccolo
orologio che rechi al polso , tutto
arretrerà dentro un disfatto prisma
babelico di forme e di colori...)

E il natale verrà e il giorno dell'anno
che sfolla le caserme e ti riporta
gli amici spersi e questo carnevale
pur esso tornerà che ora ci sfugge
tra i muri che si fendono già.Chiedi
tu di fermare il tempo sul paese
che attorno si dilata?Le grandi ali
screziate ti sfiorano , le logge
sospingono all'aperto esili bambole
bionde , vive , le pale dei mulini
rotano fisse sulle pozze garrule.
Chiedi di trattenere le campane
d'argento sopra il borgo e il suono rauco
delle colombe?Chiedi tu i mattini
trepidi delle tue prode lontane?

Come tutto si fa strano e difficile
come tutto è impossibile , tu dici.
La tua vita è quaggiù dove rimbombano
le ruote dei carriaggi senza posa
e nulla torna se non forse
in questi disguidi del possibile.
Ritorna là fra i morti balocchi
ove è negato pur morire;e col tempo che ti batte
al polso e all'esistenza ti ridona,
tra le mura pesanti che non s'aprono
al gorgo degli umani affaticato,
torna alla via dove con te intristisco
quella che mi additò un piombo raggelato
alle mie , alle tue sere:
torna alle primavere che non fioriscono.

Эудженио Монтале
Карнавал Джерти
Коль скоро увязает колесл
в нитях падучих звезд и конь артачится
среди толпы, коль на тебя струятся —
на волосы и руки — блики радуг
бегущих или малыши к губам
подносят жалобные окарины,
приветствуя тебя в пути, и звуки
хлопьями падают с моста,
если дорога, став безлюной, в мир
тебя ведет, что выдут в капле, — шар
из воздуха и света, мир, где солнце
твоей прелести радо, — может, это
значит, что путь ты обрела, намеченный
расплавленным свинцом в полночь, когда
кончился год спокойно, без пальбы.

И там, где звуки обнажает зелье,
ты хочешь медлить ныне,
где твой грядущий день из полумглы
рождается в дымящейся короне:
ты просишь край, где дикие ослы
кусочки сахара бы ели у тебя с ладони
и на приземистых деревьях почки
рождались, клювы радуя павлиньи.
(О, в эту ночь печальней моего,
боюсь, твой Карнавал — по той причине,
что ты сидишь с подарками для тех,
кто не с тобой как раз: тележки цвета
наливки, куклы, аркебузы, кукольный
набор посуды — всем друзбм подарок
предназначался урной в лоне ночи,
когда январь открылся и в тиши
гаданье было. Это Карнавал,
или еще не миновал декабрь?
Я думаю, что если стрелку часиков
переведешь ты, все тогда отступит
в разрушенную призму — Вавилон,
ъаос, столплтворенье форм и красок...)

И рождество придет и Новый год,
когда в казармах пусто и с тобою —
пропавшие друзья, и Карнавал
вернется тоже, а сейчас его
нам не удастся удержать. Ты просишь
время над приютившим нас местечком
остановить? Гигантские крыла
касаются тебя, лоджии
являют хрупких кукол — торжество
живых блондинок, мельничные лопасти
крутятся над болтливою водою.
Ты просишь сохранить колокола,
чтоб над местечком перезвон не стих
малиновый? Скажи, ты просишь трепетных
утр — дани дальних берегов твоих?

Как странно все становится и сложно,
как невозможно все, — ты говоришь.Здесь твоя жизнь, где, не давая отдыха,
грохочут по булыжнику подводы,
и если что еще и возвращается,
так по ошибке, может быть. Вернись
туда, к забавам мертвых, где конец
невероятен, и, во власти времени,
что на запястье тикает и снова
тебя дарует жизни, в те же стены,
узилище измученных сердец,
вернись на путь, где я с тобою сетовал,
на путь, что указал, застыв, свинец,
вернись к себе, ко мне,
вернись к весне, не знающей расцвета.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

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[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
A Boy’s Will (1915)
20. Going for Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;

Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.

A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

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[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Lindau
La rondine vi porta
fili d’erba, non vuole che la vita passi.
Ma tra gli argini, a notte, l’acqua morta
logora i sassi.
Sotto la torce fumicosa sbanda
sempre qualche ombra sulle prode vuote.
Nel cerchio della piazza una sarabanda,
S’aggita al mugghio dei battelli a ruote.

Эудженио Монтале
Линдау
Вновь ласточка сюда
несет травинки — будущее строит.
А ночью дамбы мертвая вода
неслышно роет.
Над берегом трепещет факел чадно,
фланируют фигуры взад-перед.
На площади в разгаре сарабанда,
вдали басит колесный пароход.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
A Boy’s Will (1915)
19. Mowing
There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Eugenio Montale
Vecchi versi
Ricordo la farfalla ch'era entrata
dai vetri schiusi nella sera fumida
su la costa raccolta, dilavata
dal trascorrere iroso delle spume.
Muoveva tutta l'aria del crepuscolo a un fioco
occiduo palpebrare della traccia
che divide acqua e terra; ed il punto atono
del faro che baluginava sulla
roccia del Tino, cerula, tre volte
si dilatò e si spense in un altro oro.

Mia madre stava accanto a me seduta
presso il tavolo ingombro dalle carte
da giuoco alzate a due per volta come
attendamenti nani pei soldati
dei nipoti sbandati già dal sonno.
Si schiodava dall'alto impetuoso
un nembo d'aria diaccia, diluviava
sul nido di Corniglia rugginoso.
Poi fu l'oscurità piena, e dal mare
un rombo basso e assiduo come un lungo
regolato concerto, ed il gonfiare
d'un pallore ondulante oltre la siepe
cimata dei pitòsfori. Nel breve
vano della mia stanza, ove la lampada
tremava dentro una ragnata fucsia,
penetrò la farfalla, al paralume
giunse e le conterie che l'avvolgevano
segnando i muri di riflessi ombrati
eguali come fregi si sconvolsero
e sullo scialbo corse alle pareti
un fascio semovente di fili esili.

Era un insetto orribile dal becco
aguzzo, gli occhi avvolti come d'una
rossastra fotosfera, al dosso il teschio
umano; e attorno dava se una mano
tentava di ghermirlo un acre sibilo
che agghiacciava.

Batté più volte sordo sulla tavola,
sui vetri ribatté chiusi dal vento,
e da sé ritrovò la via dell'aria,
si perse nelle tenebre. Dal porto
di Vernazza le luci erano a tratti
scancellate dal crescere dell'onde
invisibili al fondo della notte.

Poi tornò la farfalla dentro il nicchio
che chiudeva la lampada, discese
sui giornali del tavolo, scrollò
pazza aliando le carte -
e fu per sempre
con le cose che chiudono in un giro
sicuro come il giorno, e la memoria
in sé le cresce, sole vive d'una
vita che disparì sotterra: insieme
coi volti familiari che oggi sperde
non più il sonno ma un'altra noia; accanto
ai muri antichi, ai lidi, alla tartana
che imbarcava
tronchi di pino a riva ad ogni mese,
al segno del torrente, che discende
ancora al mare e la sua via si scava.

Эудженио Монтале
Старые стихи
Я помню — бабочка в окно влетела,
открытое в густой от пара вечер
над берегом укромным, что от мела
свирепой пены чистотой отсвечивал.
Смещался воздух сумерек при слабом
закатном трепете границы между
водою и землей; и безударная точка
вдали — маяк, мерцавший над лазоревой
скалою Тино, — трижды разрослась
и в новом буйном золоте погасла.

Сидела мама рядом — у стола,
где из составленных по две, углом,
игральных карт палатки-лилипуты
лепились, лагерь или форт солдат
племянников, подряд сраженных сном.
Неудерждимо небеса струили
прозрачны столб, который разливался
над ржавым берегом гнезда Корнильи.
Потом был мрак, и море, оживая,
напоминало низким гулом долгий
концерт, и поднималась дрожжевая
волнящаяся блендность над живою
изгородью из питтисфор. В пространство
моей каморки узкое, где лампа
мягко дрожала в паутинной фуксии,
проникла бабочка — и к абажуру,
и бахрома, стеклянные висюльки,
чьи растушеванные тени фризом
лежали ровно на стенах, рассыпалась
на ниточки и потеряла разом
устойчиывость узора на побелке.
Казался хищным острый хоботок,
обводы глаз краснели фотосферой,
сверху — тисненый череп человека;
и резкий звук, который издавала
она, спасаясь от ловящих рук,
страшил, признаюсь.

Она сначала падал на стол,
потом стучала в запертые стекла
и вдруг, сама найдя дорогу, снова
исчезла в темноте. Огни залива
Вернацца временами пропадали,
поглощены растущими волнами,
незримыми в глухом провале ночи.

Потом вернулась бабочка, забилась
в раковине на лампой, на газеты
спорхнула на столе, свалила карты,
безумная, —
и это навсегда,
как то, что длится полноценный кон
подобно ходу суток и что память
растит в себе единственно живое
от жизни, сгинувшей в земде; как лица,
которые теперь уже не сон
рассеивает, но иная скука;
как стены древние, прибой, шаланда,
раз в месяц бревна
грузившая у берега, — под знаком
потока, ниспадающего к морю
своим путем, проложенным неровно.

пер. Евг. Солонович

@темы: italian, м, m, 20, montale, eugenio

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[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
A Boy’s Will (1915)
17. In Neglect
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

@темы: 20, frost, robert, english-american, f