По Эдгар Аллан
«Лирика»

И свет волос ее горит, как бы огонь лучей,

Сияет жизнь ее волос, но не ее очей.

"Подите прочь! В моей душе ни тьмы, ни скорби нет.

Не панихиду я пою, а песню лучших лет!

Пусть не звучит протяжный звон угрюмых

похорон,

Чтоб не был светлый дух ее тем сумраком смущен.

От вражьих полчищ гордый дух, уйдя к друзьям,

исчез,

Из бездны темных Адских зол в высокий мир

Чудес,

Где золотой горит престол Властителя Небес".

(1901)

Перевод К. Бальмонта

30. DREAM-LAND

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly

From an ultimate dim Thule

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

Out of Space - out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover

For the dews that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire;

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters - lone and dead,

Their still waters - still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,

By the mountains - near the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,

By the grey woods, - by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp,

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,

By each spot the most unholy

In each nook most melancholy,

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer