Джордж Стерлинг (George Sterling)




Текст оригинала на английском языке

Night on the Mountain


THE fog has risen from the sea and crowned
    The dark, untrodden summits of the coast,
    Where roams a voice, in canyons uttermost,
From midnight waters vibrant and profound.
High on each granite altar dies the sound,
    Deep as the trampling of an armored host,
    Lone as the lamentation of a ghost,
Sad as the diapason of the drowned.

The mountain seems no more a soulless thing,
    But rather as a shape of ancient fear,
        In darkness and the winds of Chaos born
Amid the lordless heavens' thundering—
    A Presence crouched, enormous and austere,
        Before whose feat the mighty waters morn.





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