По Эдгар Аллан
«Лирика»

Ни чувствовать - увы - не чувство это.

Недвижно так стою на золотом

Пороге, перед замком сновидений,

Раскрытым широко, - глядя в смущеньи

На пышность раскрывающейся дали,

И с трепетом встречая, вправо, влево,

И вдоль всего далекого пути,

Среди туманов, пурпуром согретых,

До самого конца - одну тебя.

(1901)

Перевод К. Бальмонта

36. ULALUME - A BALLAD

The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and sere

The leaves they were withering and sere:

It was night, in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year:

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir:

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

As the scoriae rivers that roll

As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,

In the ultimate climes of the Pole

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek,

In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere

Our memories were treacherous and sere;

For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber,

(Though once we had journeyed down here)

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,

And star-dials pointed to morn

As the star-dials hinted of morn

At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent