Текст оригинала на английском языке
At William Maclennan's Grave
Here where the cypress tall Shadows the stucco wall, Bronze and deep, Where the chrysanthemums blow, And the roses--blood and snow-- He lies asleep. Florence dreameth afar; Memories of foray and war, Murmur still; The Certosa crowns with a cold Cloud of snow and gold The olive hill. What has he now for the streams Born sweet and deep with dreams From the cedar meres? Only the Arno's flow, Turbid, and weary, and slow With wrath and tears. What has he now for the song Of the boatmen, joyous and long, Where the rapids shine? Only the sound of toil, Where the peasants press the soil For the oil and wine. Spirit-fellow in sooth With bold La Salle and Duluth, And La Vérandrye,-- Nothing he has but rest, Deep in his cypress nest With memory. Hearts of steel and of fire, Why do ye love and aspire, When follows Death--all your passionate deeds, Garnered with rust and with weeds In the hollows? God that hardened the steel, Bid the flame leap and reel, Gave us unrest; We act in the dusk afar, In a star beyond your star, His behest. "We leave you dreams and names Still we are iron and flames, Biting and bright; Into some virgin world, Champions, we are hurled, Of venture and fight." Here where the shadows fall, From the cypress by the wall, Where the roses are-- Here is a dream and a name, There, like a rose of flame, Rises--a star.
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