Чумовая вещь, ИМХО. Оч. красиво.
In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.
The little rift within the lover's lute
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
It is not worth the keeping: let it go:
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.'
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31.08.2003 в 01:06Нарыла тут в одном дневнике стихотворение... Это WH Auden, довольно сложное (для меня по кр. мере), но там есть такие любопытные почти цитатные ассоциации с ГП (что-то выделила), что не удивлюсь, если кто-нибудь срубит из этого фик. Уж очень смахивает на эпитафию СБ, причем неоднозначную...
Не знаю м.б. это только мне так кажется - хотя автор дн. тоже был в состоянии "awesome"... ))
UNDER SIRIUS
Yes, these are the dog-days, Fortunatus:
The heather lies limp and dead
On the mountain, the baltering torrent
Shrunk to a soodling thread;
Rusty the spears of the legion, unshaven its captain,
Vacant the scholar's brain
Under his great hat,
Drug as she may the Sybil utters
A gush of table-chat.
And you yourself with a head-cold and upset stomach,
Lying in bed till noon
Your bills unpaid, your much advertised
Epic not yet begun,
Are a sufferer too. All day, you tell us, you wish
Some earthquake would astonish
Or the wind of the Comforter's wing
Unlock the prisons and translate
The slipshod gathering.
And last night, you say, you dreamed of that bright blue morning,
The hawthorn hedges in bloom,
When, serene in their ivory vessels,
The three wise Maries come,
Sossing through seamless waters, piloted in
By sea-horse and fluent dolphin;
Ah! how the cannons roar,
How jocular the bells as They
Indulge the peccant shore.
It is natural to hope and pious, of course, to believe
That all in the end shall be well,
But first of all, remember,
So the Sacred Books foretell,
The rotten fruit shall be shaken.
Would your hope make sense
If today were that moment of silence
Before it break and drown
When the insurrected eagre hangs
Over the sleeping town?
How will you look and what will you do when the basalt
Tombs of the sorcerers shatter
And their guardian megalopods
Come after you pitter-patter?
How will you answer when from their qualming spring
The immortal nymphs fly shrieking
Out of the open sky
The pantocratic riddle breaks-
"Who are you and why?"
For when in carol under the apple-trees
The reborn featly dance,
There will also, Fortunatus,
Be those who refused their chance,
Now pottering shades, querolous beside the salt-pits,
And mawkish in their wits
To whom these dull dog-days
Between event seem crowned with olive
And golden with self-praise.
-1949.
(Знаю, что potter тут в смысле "бродить", но все равно...)))