Искусствоед
Siegfried Sassoon
War Poems
A Testament
If, as I think, I'm warned to pack and go
On a longer journey than I've made before,
I must be taking stock of what I leave,
And what I stand to lose, of all my store.
Cries for completion. Things, that made me weep
For joy of loveliness, comes shining back
Dazzling my spirit that prepares for sleep.
Hushed is the house that once was full of songs.
In stillness rich with music that has been,
I wait death's savage hour that shall deliver
My soul and leave the soaring night serene.
There was a narrow path from glade to glade
Theading the golden forest, like a story
Planned to no certain close; a path that went
Fromm morning to a sundown split with glory:
My home was safe among the slender trees;
There, on the blossomed slopes of time and sense,
Birds flocked and days came delicate and cold;
But now the tempest stoops to bear me hence.
The arches of the air are mighty songs
That tell me of a wide-flung radiance spread
Across the world; my feet roam with the tides,
And I am crowned with the triumphant dead.
Montagne, 1 January 1916
War Poems
A Testament
If, as I think, I'm warned to pack and go
On a longer journey than I've made before,
I must be taking stock of what I leave,
And what I stand to lose, of all my store.
Cries for completion. Things, that made me weep
For joy of loveliness, comes shining back
Dazzling my spirit that prepares for sleep.
Hushed is the house that once was full of songs.
In stillness rich with music that has been,
I wait death's savage hour that shall deliver
My soul and leave the soaring night serene.
There was a narrow path from glade to glade
Theading the golden forest, like a story
Planned to no certain close; a path that went
Fromm morning to a sundown split with glory:
My home was safe among the slender trees;
There, on the blossomed slopes of time and sense,
Birds flocked and days came delicate and cold;
But now the tempest stoops to bear me hence.
The arches of the air are mighty songs
That tell me of a wide-flung radiance spread
Across the world; my feet roam with the tides,
And I am crowned with the triumphant dead.
Montagne, 1 January 1916