Миллей Эдна Сент-Винсент
Шрифт:
Edna St.Vincent Millay «Love is not all»
Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain, Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink and rise and sink and rise and sink again. Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, pinned down by need and moaning for release or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It may well be. I do not think I would. Избранное
Переводы Галины Ицкович
Из цикла «Несколько смокв с репейника» [1]
Первая смоква
First Fig
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends — It gives a lovely light! 1
A Few Figs from Thistles
Poems and Sonnets
by Edna St.Vincent Millay
F. Shay, New York, 1920
После полудня на холме
Afternoon on A Hill
I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down! Взрослая
Grown-up
Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight? Четверг
THURSDAY
AND if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday — So much is true. And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday, — yes-but what Is that to me? Возможно, что Ему
To the Not Impossible Him
How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo or Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way? Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose? The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here, — but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel! Пир
Feast
I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want. Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger: I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger.