[Lika_k]

George Marion McClellan
A September Night
The full September moon sheds floods of light,
And all the bayou’s face is gemmed with stars,
Save where are dropped fantastic shadows down
From sycamores and moss-hung cypress trees.
With slumberous sound the waters half asleep
Creep on and on their way, ’twixt rankish reeds,
Through marsh and lowlands stretching to the Gulf.
Begirt with cotton fields, Anguilla sits
Half bird-like, dreaming on her Summer nest.
Amid her spreading figs and roses, still
In bloom with all their Spring and Summer hues,
Pomegranates hang with dapple cheeks full ripe,
And over all the town a dreamy haze
Drops down. The great plantations, stretching far
Away, are plains of cotton, downy white.
O, glorious is this night of joyous sounds;
Too full for sleep. Aromas wild and sweet,
From muscadine, late blooming jessamine,
And roses, all the heavy air suffuse.
Faint bellows from the alligators come
From swamps afar, where sluggish lagoons give
To them a peaceful home. The katydids
Make ceaseless cries. Ten thousand insects’ wings
Stir in the moonlight haze and joyous shouts
Of Negro song and mirth awake hard by
The cabin dance. O, glorious is this night!
The Summer sweetness fills my heart with songs,
I can not sing, with loves I can not speak.

@темы: m, 20, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Анна Ахматова
Подвал памяти
Но сущий вздор, что я живу грустя
И что меня воспоминанье точит.
Не часто я у памяти в гостях,
Да и она всегда меня морочит.
Когда спускаюсь с фонарем в подвал,
Мне кажется – опять глухой обвал
За мной по узкой лестнице грохочет.
Чадит фонарь, вернуться не могу,
А знаю, что иду туда к врагу.
И я прошу как милости… Но там
Темно и тихо. Мой окончен праздник!
Уж тридцать лет, как проводили дам,
От старости скончался тот проказник…
Я опоздала. Экая беда!
Нельзя мне показаться никуда.
Но я касаюсь живописи стен
И у камина греюсь. Что за чудо!
Сквозь эту плесень, этот чад и тлен
Сверкнули два живые изумруда.
И кот мяукнул. Ну, идем домой!

Но где мой дом и где рассудок мой?

@темы: 20, а (rus), akhmatova, anna, russian

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[Lika_k]

Emily Brontë
R. Alcona to J. Brenzaida
Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time’s all-wearing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on Angora’s shore;
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring –
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the World’s tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.

No other Sun has lightened up my heaven,
No other Star has ever shone for me;
All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given -
All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!

And even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

(from Emily Brontë's Poetry

@темы: victorian, b, links, 19, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Александр Блок
Болотный попик
На весенней проталинке
За вечерней молитвою - маленький
Попик болотный виднеется.

Ветхая ряска над кочкой
Чернеется
Чуть заметною точкой.

И в безбурности зорь красноватых
Не видать чертенят бесноватых,
Но вечерняя прелесть
Увила вкруг него свои тонкие руки...
Предзакатные звуки,
Легкий шелест.

Тихонько он молится,
Улыбается, клонится,
Приподняв свою шляпу.

И лягушке хромой, ковыляющей,
Травой исцеляющей
Перевяжет болящую лапу.
Перекрестит и пустит гулять:
"Вот, ступай в родимую гать.
Душа моя рада
Всякому гаду
И всякому зверю
И о всякой вере".
И тихонько молится,
Приподняв свою шляпу,
За стебель, что клонится,
За больную звериную лапу,
И за римского папу.

Не бойся пучины тряской -
Спасет тебя черная ряска.

@темы: б, 20, block, alexander, russian

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[Lika_k]

Eunice Tietjens
To Jake
You are turned wraith. Your supple, flitting hands,
As formless as the night wind’s moan,
Beckon across the years, and your heart’s pain
Fades surely as a stainèd stone.

And yet you will not let me rest, crying
And calling down the night to me
A thing that when your body moved and glowed,
Living, you could not make me see.

Lean down your homely, mist-encircled head
Close, close above my human ear,
And tell me what of pain among the dead—
Tell me, and I will try to hear.

(с)

@темы: t, links, 20, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Эжен Гельвик
Я ходил без тебя в луга,
Я ходил без тебя к цветам.

Я смог без тебя сто тропинок пройти,
Я смог без тебя у ручья прилечь,
Я смог без тебя весь вечер нести
Тяжесть своих одиноких шагов.

Больше я так не могу -
Без тебя.

пер. Мор. Ваксмахер

@темы: francaise, 20, г (rus)

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[Lika_k]

John Clare
Fragment
The cataract whirling down the precipice,
Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through.
Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;
Hell and its agonies seem hide below.
Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew;
The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.
Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through,
Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.

@темы: c, 19, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Paul Verlaine
Il pleure dans mon cœur
Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville ;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits!
Pour un coeur qui s’ennuie,
Ô le chant de la pluie!

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s’écoeure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison?…
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon coeur a tant de peine!

Поль Верлен
Песня без слов
Плачет в сердце моём,
Как над городом дождь.
Что же ночью и днём
Плачет в сердце моём?

Сладкий ропот дождя
По земле, по домам!
С сердцем речи ведя,
Сладок ропот дождя.

Отчего ж без причин
Плачет сердце в груди?
Нет измен — я один.
Эта скорбь без причин.

Нет печали сильней,
Как не знать, почему
Без любви, без страстей
Сердца боль всё сильней.

Пер. Д. М. Ратгауз

Мне вообще ни один перевод не нравится, но этот привожу потому что обычно стараюсь всегда привести хоть какой-то перевод, а этот хотя бы технически ближе к оригиналу

@темы: v, francaise, в, 19

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[Lika_k]

George Gordon Byron
Darkness
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

@темы: b, 19, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Андрей Николев (Андрей Николаевич Егунов)
От хлопьев улицы храня покой невинный
безруких полудев, причесанных и чинных,
витринное стекло течет, едва задето
прикосновеньем точек легковейных.
Мельканье это и прохожих лица,
домов окраска, жидкие сугробы —
все в манную преобразилось кашу,
мне сладковаты люди и лошадки,
и, пятилетний, я хочу в кроватку.

@темы: н, 20, е (rus), russian

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[Lika_k]

Czeslaw Milosz
Orpheus and Eurydice
Standing on flagstones of the sidewalk at the entrance to Hades
Orpheus hunched in a gust of wind
That tore at his coat, rolled past in waves of fog,
Tossed the leaves of the trees. The headlights of cars
Flared and dimmed in each succeeding wave.

He stopped at the glass-paneled door, uncertain
Whether he was strong enough for that ultimate trial.

He remembered her words: “You are a good man.”
He did not quite believe it. Lyric poets
Usually have – as he knew – cold hearts.
It is like a medical condition. Perfection in art
Is given in exchange for such an affliction.

Only her love warmed him, humanized him.
When he was with her, he thought differently about himself.
He could not fail her now, when she was dead.

He pushed open the door and found himself walking in a labyrinth,
Corridors, elevators. The livid light was not light but the dark
of the earth.
Electronic dogs passed him noiselessly.
He descended many floors, a hundred, three hundred, down.

He was cold, aware that he was Nowhere.
Under thousands of frozen centuries,
On an ashy trace where generations had moldered,
In a kingdom that seemed to have no bottom and no end.

Thronging shadows surrounded him.
He recognized some of the faces.
He felt the rhythm of his blood.

He felt strongly his life with its guilt
And he was afraid to meet those to whom he had done harm.
But they had lost the ability to remember
And gave him only a glance, indifferent to all that.

For his defense he had a nine-stringed lyre.
He carried in it the music of the earth, against the abyss
That buries all of sound in silence.
He submitted to the music, yielded
To the dictation of a song, listening with rapt attention,
Became, like his lyre, its instrument.

Thus he arrived at the palace of the rulers of that land.
Persephone, in her garden of withered pear and apple trees,
Black, with naked branches and verrucose twigs,
Listened from the funereal amethyst of her throne.

He sang the brightness of mornings and green rivers,
He sang of smoking water in the rose-colored daybreaks,
Of colors: cinnabar, carmine, burnt sienna, blue,
Of the delight of swimming in the sea under marble cliffs,
Of feasting on a terrace above the tumult of a fishing port,
Of tastes of wine, olive oil, almonds, mustard, salt.
Of the flight of the swallow, the falcon,
Of a dignified flock of pelicans above the bay,
Of the scent of an armful of lilacs in summer rain,
Of his having composed his words always against death
And of having made no rhyme in praise of nothingness.

I don’t know – said the goddess – whether you loved her or not.
Yet you have come here to rescue her.
She will be returned to you. But there are conditions:
You are not permitted to speak to her, or on the journey back
To turn your head, even once, to assure yourself that she is
behind you.

And so Hermes brought forth Eurydice.
Her face no longer hers, utterly gray,
Her eyelids lowered beneath the shade of her lashes.
She stepped rigidly, directed by the hand
Of her guide. Orpheus wanted so much
To call her name, to wake her from that sleep.
But he refrained, for he had accepted the conditions.

And so they set out. He first, and then, not right away,
The slap of the god’s sandals and the light patter
Of her feet fettered by her robe, as if by a shroud.
A steep climbing path phosphorized
Out of darkness like the walls of a tunnel.
He would stop and listen. But then
They stopped, too, and the echo faded.
And when he began to walk the double tapping commenced again.
Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes more distant.
Under his faith a doubt sprang up
And entwined him like cold bindweed.
Unable to weep, he wept at the loss
Of the human hope for the resurrection of the dead,
Because he was, now, like every other mortal.
His lyre was silent, yet he dreamed, defenseless.
He knew he must have faith and he could not have faith.
And so he would persist for a very long time,
Counting his steps in half-wakeful torpor.

Day was breaking. Shapes of rock loomed up
Under the luminous eye of the exit from underground.
It happened as he expected. He turned his head
And behind him on the path was no one.

Sun. And sky. And in the sky white clouds.
Only now everything cried to him: Eurydice!
How will I live without you, my consoling one!
But there was a fragrant scent of herbs, the low humming of bees,
And he fell asleep with his cheek on the sun-warmed earth.

@темы: polish, antiquity, m, 20, milosz, czeslaw, mythology

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[Lika_k]

Georg Trakl
Nachlass: Gedichte 1912-1914
So ernst o Sommerdämmerung
So ernst o Sommerdämmerung.
Von müdem Munde
Sank dein goldner Odem ins Tal
Zu den Stätten der Hirten,
Versinkt im Laub.
Ein Geier hebt am Waldsaum
Das versteinerte Haupt -
Ein Adlerblick
Erstrahlt im grauen Gewölk
Die Nacht.

Wild erglühen
Die roten Rosen am Zaun
Erglühend stirbt
In grüner Woge Liebendes hin
Eine erbliche Rose

Георг Тракль
Из литературного наследия Nachlass
Стихотворения 1912-1914
So ernst o Sommerdämmerung...
Неприклонен ты, о летний закат.
С усталых уст
Низошло твое золотое дыханье в долину,
К шалашам пастухов,
Потонуло в листве.
Коршун у края леса
Поднял голову - и окаменело застыл:
Взор, как луч,
Пронизывает серые тучи
И ночь.

Буйно пылают
Красные розы возле ограды.
Отпылав, умерла
В зеленой волне любви
Наследная роза...

пер. Вл. Летучий

@темы: т, t, 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, trakl, georg, expressionism

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[Lika_k]

Elizabeth Jennings (1926–2001)
Song at the Beginning of Autumn
Now watch this Autumn that arrives
In smells. All looks like Summer still;
Colours are quite unchanged, the air
On green and white serenely thrives.
Heavy the trees with growth and full
The fields. Flowers flourish everywhere.

Proust who collected time within
A child’s cake would understand
The ambiguity of this –
Summer still raging while a thin
Column of smoke stirs from the land
Proving that Autumn gropes for us.

But every season is a kind
Of rich nostalgia. We give names –
Autumn and Summer, Winter, Spring –
As though to unfasten from the mind
Our moods and give them outward forms.
We want the certain, solid thing.

But I am carried back against
My will into a childhood where
Autumn is bonfires, marbles, smoke;
I lean against my window fenced
From evocations in the air.
When I said Autumn, Autumn broke.

@темы: j, 20, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Georg Trakl
Nachlass: Gedichte 1912-1914
Heimkehr
Wenn goldne Ruh der Abend odmet
Wald und dunkle Wiese davor
Ein Schauendes ist der Mensch,
Ein Hirt, wohnend in der Herden dämmernder Stille,
Der Geduld der roten Buchen;
So klar da es Herbst geworden. Am Hügel
Lauscht der Einsame dem Flug der Vögel,
Dunkler Bedeutung und die Schatten der Toten
Haben sich ernster um ihn versammelt<;>
Mit Schauern erfüllt ihn kühler Resedenduft<,>
Die Hütten der Dörfler der Hollunder,
Wo vor Zeiten das Kind gewohnt.

Erinnerung, begrabene Hoffnung
Bewahrt dies braune Gebälk,
Darüber Georginen hangen,
Daß darnach er die Hände ringe<,>
Im braunen Gärtchen den schimmernden Schritt
Verboten Lieben, dunkles Jahr,
Daß von blauen Lidern die Tränen stürzten
Dem Fremdling unaufhaltsam.

Von braunen Wipfeln tropft der Tau,
Da jener ein blaues Wild am Hügel erwacht,
Lauschend den lauten Rufen der Fischer
Am Abendweiher
Dem ungestalten Schrei der Fledermäuse;
Aber in goldener Stille
Wohnt das trunkene Herz
Seines erhabenen Todes voll.

Георг Тракль
Из литературного наследия Nachlass
Стихотворения 1912-1914
Возвращение домой
Когда вечер дышит золотым покоем
Леса и темного луга, тогда
Человек - созерцатель; он
Пастух смеркающейся тишины стада,
Терпеливости красных буков;

Проясняется осень. С холма
Одинокий внимает птичьим полетам,
Темным знаменьям, и тени мертвых
Озабоченно обступают его;
В дрожь бросает холодный аромат резеды.
Лачуги селян, куст бузины,
Где некогда детство прошло.

Воспоминания, погребенные надежды
Хранит потолочная бурая балка
Со свисающими георгинами -
Он пытался до них дотянуться;
В буром саду мерцают шаги
Запретной любви, темный год,
Когда с синих век изгоя
Неудержимо брызнули слезы.

С бурых макушек капает роса,
И он - синий зверек - просыпается на холме,
Вслушивается в окрики рыбаков
Когда вечереет пруд,
В жуткие крики летучих мышей;
Но в золотой тишине Живет упоённое сердце
Его великой смерти.

пер. Вл. Летучий

@темы: т, t, 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, trakl, georg, expressionism

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[Lika_k]

Catullus 101
Many the peoples many the oceans I crossed --
I arrive at these poor, brother, burials
so I could give you the last gift owed to death
and talk (why?) with mute ash.
Now that Fortune tore you from me, you
oh poor (wrongly) brother (wrongly) taken from me,
now still anyway this -- what a distant mood of parents
handed down as the sad gift for burials --
accept! Soaked with tears of a brother
and into forever, brother, farewell and farewell.

-- Catullus (translated by Anne Carson)

@темы: c, antiquity, 20, 21, 1 BC

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[Lika_k]

Georg Trakl
Nachlass: Gedichte 1912-1914
Am Abend (2. Fassung)
Noch ist gelb das Gras, grau und schwarz der Wald;
Aber am Abend dämmert ein Grün auf.
Der Fluß kommt von den Bergen kalt und klar,
Tönt im Felsen versteck; also tönt es,
Wenn du trunken die Beine bewegst; wilder Spaziergang
Im Blau; und die entzückten Schreie der Vögelchen.
Die schon sehr dunkel, tiefer neigt
Die Stirne sich über bläuliche Wasser, Weibliches;
Untergehend wieder in grünem Abendgezweig.
Schritt und Schwermut tönt einträchtig in purpurner Sonne.

Георг Тракль
Из литературного наследия Nachlass
Стихотворения 1912-1914
Вечером (2-ая редакция)
Еще желта трава, хмур и черен лес;
Но смеркается к вечеру зелень.
Светло и студёно с гор сбегает река,
Шумит, прячась за скалами; и шумно кругом,
Когда спьяну заплетаются ноги; дикий бросок
В синеву; восхитительны вопли пичуг.
Уже стемнело, и все ниже
Сникает чело над синеватой водой - женоликой;
И снова закатные тени в зеленых ветвях.
Шаги и грусть угасают вместе с пурпуром солнца.

пер. Вл. Летучий

@темы: т, t, 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, trakl, georg, expressionism

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[Lika_k]

Carl Sandburg
Humdrum
If I had a million lives to live
and a million deaths to die
in a million humdrum worlds,

I’d like to change my name
and have a new house number to go by
each and every time I died
and started life all over again.

I wouldn’t want the same name every time
and the same old house number always,
dying a million deaths,
dying one by one a million times:
—would you?
or you?
or you?

@темы: s, 20, english-american, sandburg, carl

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[Lika_k]

Georg Trakl
Nachlass: Gedichte 1912-1914
Nimm blauer Abend
Nimm blauer Abend eines Schläfe, leise ein Schlummerndes
Unter herbstlichen Bäumen, unter goldener Wolke.
Anschaut der Wald; als wohnte der Knabe ein blaues Wild
In der kristallnen Woge des kühlen Quells
So leise schlägt sein Herz in hyazinthener Dämmerung,
Trauert der Schatten der Schwester, ihr purpurnes Haar;
Dieses flackert im Nachtwind. Versunkene Pfade
Nachtwandelt jener und es träumt sein roter Mund
Unter verwesenden Bäumen; schweigend umfängt
Des Weihers Kühle den Schläfer, gleitet
Der verfallene Mond über seine schwärzlichen Augen.
Sterne versinkend im braunen Eichengeäst.

Георг Тракль
Из литературного наследия Nachlass
Стихотворения 1912-1914
Nimm blauer Abend eines Schläfe, leise ein Schlummerndes...
Прикоснись, синий вечер, к виску тихо дремлющего
Под осенними деревьями, золотом облаков.
Лес приглядывается; как если бы мальчик -
Синий зверек - обитал в хрустальных волнах
и прохладе ручья:
О, как тихо стучит его сердце в гиацинтовых сумерках,
Оплакивает тень сестры, ее пурпурные волосы,
Мерцающие в ночном ветре. По скрытым тропам
Бредет он в ночь, и его алые губы грезят
Под чахлыми деревьями; безмолвно объемлет
сновидца
Прохлада пруда, ущербная луна проплывает
над чернотой его глаз.
Погружаются звезды в бурые ветви дубов.

пер. Вл. Летучий

@темы: т, t, 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, trakl, georg, expressionism

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[Lika_k]

Rupert Brooke
Sonnet Reversed
Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights
Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.

Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon!
Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures,
Settled at Balham by the end of June.
Their money was in Can. Pacs. B. Debentures,
And in Antofagastas. Still he went
Cityward daily; still she did abide
At home. And both were really quite content
With work and social pleasures. Then they died.
They left three children (besides George, who drank):
The eldest Jane, who married Mr. Bell,
William, the head-clerk in the County Bank,
And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.

@темы: b, 20, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Georg Trakl
Nachlass: Gedichte 1912-1914
An Luzifer (3. Fassung)
Dem Geist leih deine Flamme, glühende Schwermut;
Seufzend ragt das Haupt in die Mitternacht,
Am grünenden Frühlingshügel; wo vor Zeiten
Verblutet ein sanftes Lamm, der Schmerzen tiefsten
Erduldet; aber es folgt der Dunkle dem Schatten
Des Bösen, oder er hebt die feuchten Schwingen
Zur goldenen Scheibe der Sonne und es erschüttert
Ein Glockenton die schmerzzerrissene Brust ihm,
Wilde Hoffnung; die Finsternis flammenden Sturzes.

Георг Тракль
Из литературного наследия Nachlass
Стихотворения 1912-1914
К Люциферу (3-ая редакция)
Духу ссуди свое пламя, раскаленную грусть;
В полночь вперяется смертный, вздыхая, -
С зеленого холма; где когда-то
Кровью истёк агнец, претерпевая
Жесточайшие муки; но следует Темный за тенью
Зла, или поднимает влажные крылья
К золотому диску солнца, и колокольный звон
Сотрясает ему истерзанную болью грудь,
Дикую надежду; мрак пламенеющего паденья.

пер. Вл. Летучий

@темы: т, t, 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, trakl, georg, expressionism