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James Thomson
1834 - 1882
(Джеймс Томсон)

ОДНАЖДЫ

Once in a saintly passion

ONCE in a saintly passion

  I cried with desperate grief,

"O Lord, my heart is black with guile,

  Of sinners I am chief."

Then stooped my guardian angel

  And whispered from behind,

"Vanity, my little man,

  You're nothing of the kind."

Там где был огонь

The fire that filled my heart of old

THE fire that filled my heart of old

  Gave luster while it burned;

Now only ashes gray and cold

  Are in its silence urned.

Ah! better was the furious flame,

  The splendor with the smart;

I never cared for the singer's fame

  But, oh! for the singer's heart

Once more--

The burning fulgent heart!

 

No love, no hate, no hope, no fear,

  No anguish and no mirth;

Thus life extends from year to year,

  A flat of sullen dearth.

Ah! life's blood creepeth cold and tame,

  Life's thought plays no new part;

I never cared for the singer's fame,

  But, oh! for the singer's heart

Once more--

The bleeding passionate heart!

Day

Я проснулся утром

WAKING one morning
In a pleasant land,
By a river flowing
Over golden sand:--
Whence flow ye, waters,
O'er your golden sand?
We come flowing
From the Silent Land.
Whither go ye, waters,
O'er your golden sand?
We go flowing
To the Silent Land.
And what is this fair realm?
A grain of golden sand
In the great darkness
Of the Silent Land.

© 2007 Elena and Yacov Feldman