Текст оригинала на английском языке
The Wind at Night
O SUDDEN blast, that through this silence black Sweeps past my windows, Coming and going with invisible track As death or sin does,— Why scare me, lying sick, and, save thy own, Hearing no voices? Why mingle with a helpless human moan Thy mad rejoices? Why not come gently, as good angels come To souls departing, Floating among the shadows of the room With eyes light-darting, Bringing faint airs of balm that seem to rouse Thoughts of a Far Land, Then binding softly upon weary brows Death’s poppy-garland? O fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound, Like heathen mortal Who saw the Three that mark life’s doomèd bound Sit at his portal. Thou mightst be laden with sad, shrieking souls, Carried unwilling From their known earth to the unknown stream that rolls All anguish stilling. Fierce wind, will the Death-angel come like thee, Soon, soon to bear me —Whither? what mysteries may unfold to me, What terrors scare me? Shall I go wand’ring on through empty space As on earth, lonely? Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face, And miss that only? Shall I not then drop down from sphere to sphere Palsied and aimless? Or will my being change so that both fear And grief die nameless? Rather I pray Him who Himself is Love, Out of whose essence We all do spring, and towards him tending, move Back to His presence, That even His brightness may not quite efface The soul’s earth-features, That the dear human likeness each may trace Glorified creatures; That we may not cease loving, only taught Holier desiring; More faith, more patience; with more wisdom fraught, Higher aspiring. That we may do all work we left undone Here—though unmeetness; From height to height celestial passing on Towards full completeness. Then, strong Azrael, be thy supreme call Soft as spring-breezes, Or like this blast, whose loud fiend-festival My heart’s blood freezes. I will not fear thee. If thou safely keep My soul, God’s giving, And my soul’s soul, I, wakening from death-sleep, Shall first know living.
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