|
Главная • Биографии • Стихи по темам • Случайное стихотворение • Переводчики • Ссылки • Антологии Рейтинг поэтов • Рейтинг стихотворений |
|
Isabella Valancy Crawford (Изабелла Валанси Кроуфорд) Curtius How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how? Methought, while on the shadowed terraces I walked and looked toward Rome, an echo came Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry. 'O Jove!' I thought, 'the Oracles have said, And, saying, touched some swiftly answering chord General to every soul.' And then my heart (I being here alone) beat strangely loud, Responsive to the cry, and my still soul Informed me thus: 'Not such a harmony Could spring from aught within the souls of men, But that which is most common to all souls. Lo! that is sorrow!' Nay, Curtius, I could smile To tell thee, as I listened to the cry, How on the silver flax which blew about The ivory distaff in my languid hand I found large tears; such big and rounded drops And gather thro' dark nights on cypress boughs. And I was sudden angered, for I thought: 'Why should a general wail come home to me With such vibration in my trembling heart That such great tears should rise and overflow?' Then shook them on the marble where I paced, Where instantly they vanished in the sun, As diamonds fade in flames. 'Twas foolish, Curtius! And then methought how strange and lone it seemed, For till thou camest I seemed to be alone On the vined terrace, prisoned in the gold Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps To take my alms and bless the gods and me; No orphans touched the fringes of my robe With innocent babe fingers, nor dropped the gold I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek. Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets To catch first tidings from the Oracles. The very peacocks drowsed in distant shades, Nor sought my hand for honeyed cake; and high A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky And kept my doves from cooing at my feet. My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds Which, laughing, this bright morn thou brought and wreathed Around it as I sang; but with that wail Dying across the vines and purple slopes, And breaking on its strings, I did not care To waken music-nor in truth could force My voice or fingers to it. So I strayed Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall, And pleased myself by filling it with thee. 'Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome, Say all the armourers; all Rome and I Know thee the lordliest bearer of a sword. Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost From out the helmet, and a ruby gone From the short sword-hilt-trifles both which can Be righted by tomorrow's noon. Tomorrow's noon!- Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice When spake I these three words, 'tomorrow's noon'? Oh, I am full of dreams-methought there was. Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine! If loved I dismal thoughts I well could deem Thou sawest not the blue of my fond eyes, But looked between the lips of that dread pit,- O Jove! to name it seems to curse the air With chills of death! We'll speak not of it, Curtius. When I had dimmed thy shield with kissing it I went between the olives to the stalls. White Audax neighed out to me as I came, As I had been Hippona to his eyes, New dazzling from the one small mystic cloud That, like a silver chariot, floated low In ripe blue of noon, and seemed to pause, Stayed by the hilly round of yon aged tree. He stretched the ivory arch of his vast neck, Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floor With hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth; Shook the long silver of his burnished mane Until the sunbeams smote it into light Such as a comet trails across the sky. I love him, Curtius! Such magnanimous fires Leap from his eyes! And I do truly think That with thee seated on him, thy strong knees Against his sides, the bridle in his jaws In thy loved hand, to pleasure thee he'd spring Sheer from the verge of Earth into the breast Of Death and Chaos. Of Death and Chaos!- What omens seem to strike my soul to-day! What is there in this blossom-hour should knit And omen in with every simple word? Should make yon willows with their hanging locks Dusk sybils, muttering sorrows to the air? The roses, clamb'ring round yon marble Pan, Wave like red banners floating o'er the dead? The dead-there 'tis again! My Curtius, come, And thou shalt tell me of the Oracles And what sent hither that long cry of woe. Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear. While on thy charger's throbbing neck I leaned, Romeward there passed across the violet slopes Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides, And horns as cusped and white as Dian's bow, And lordly breasts which laid the honeyed thyme Into long swarths, whence smoke of yellow bees Rose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose. For the great temple they. And as they passed With quiet gait I heard their drivers say The bulls were for the Altars, when should come Word from the Oracles as to the Pit. O Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I see How black and fearful is its glutton throat! I will not look! O Soul, be blind and see not! Then the men Waved their long goads, still juicy from the vine And plumed with bronzy leaves, and each to each Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides, The mighty curving of the lordly breasts, The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads, And laughed and said, 'The gods will have it thus, The choicest of the earth for sacrifice, Let it be man or maid, or lowing bull!' Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrilled As Daphne's leaves thrill to a wind so soft One might not feel it on the open palm. I cannot choose but laugh, for what have I To do with altars and with sacrifice? Isabella Valancy Crawford's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1196 |
||
Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |