A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - [59]

And yet I feel that we will soon be parted,

1 tire so fast. Forgive me if I gasp,

Here, let me have your little hand to clasp

In mine for yet a little longer. Stay.

I have to finish what I want to say.

Because you are more generously blessed

Than most, you are not better than the rest,

Only more fortunate. So if you can,

Be kind and gentle to your fellow man,

As we are taught to be.

And oh, my dear,

Enjoy the wealth that you are offered here —

Sunrise — and music — and the shape of trees —

Soft growing grass — and world-encircling seas —

Love for a man — the work you have to do —

Friends travelling the very road as you —

I hope that you will live and toil and play

With all your heart, and all the time obey

Your faith in the great Presence over all,

Whether you win, or whether for a time

Your footsteps falter in the slime

Of difficulties, even if you fall,

Remember, dear, that with your faith and will

In days of darkness you are victor still.

It s getting late, and you should be in bed,

And surely there will be one more tomorrow —

When I am gone, don't think of me as dead,

Remember me with happiness, not sorrow …

But we shall talk again …

Good night, good night!

[1967]

540. «Somewhere…»

Somewhere

there is a gate that I must find and open,

take out the bolt and lilt the latch and push,

and then the road ahead will stretch away

smooth, clear and safe for me to walk at leisure;

a small white gate, wrought in a low white fence,

along the outskirts of this great dense wood.

There must be somewhere

in the tall brush and thicket on my trail

a mark, a sign, perhaps a broken twig,

a tree peculiarly bent, a stone

lying against another;

there must be somewhere

an indication, maybe even arrow

pointing that way, so that I may follow;

it cannot be that I have not remembered

those previous markings,

and have lost the trail.

[1960s]

541. «High in the air, the high blue air above us…» [242]

High in the air, the high blue air above us,

where birds and men fly peacefully together,

for endless centuries, the long lost notes

of many songs have floated by, unheard

to living ears.

We have not yet

become quite strong enough to catch those songs

and hear and tame them for the world to know,

but they are there, for they were never lost

completely. And if sometimes, in the haze

along the fringes of this life

we think we meet

a sudden melody that we have never known,

barely distinguished words, perhaps a rhyme

that we reach out to touch —

we vainly strain, but all that we can feel

is some vague sense of beauty

created somewhere once, and waiting for us,

not quite completely lost,

nor yet recaptured.

[1960s]

542. «Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger…»

Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger

that all one's past will disappear afar

just like the soft sound of some forgotten music,

like in the dark of night a fallen star?

[1980s]

543–561 My China [243]

543. «I put my brushes carefully, one by one…»

Arranging the brushes, and picking the right

one to write a poem.

I put my brushes carefully, one by one,

into their respective cones

in the brass brush stand,

meticulously smoothing each sensitive tuft with my fingers,

to make a pinpoint end.

I pull out the small white bone latch

of my ink box,

lifting its black and gold silk lid.

The ink tablet, half covered with carved inscription,

lies before me.

I pull out the two white bone pieces

latching the powder-blue silk covers

of a small thick volume.

The ivory-white rice paper page

is blank.

The moon has set over the western horizon

and night fragrance is drifting into my window.

I pick a brush of the needed thickness,

touch the surface of water in a porcelain cup

and caressing the ink tablet gently,

write down a poem.

544. «Two ladies stand on an open marble surface…»

A favorite scroll on the east wall of my room.

Two ladies stand on an open marble surface,

and the mist of the April morning

swirls at their silken feet;

the verdure of the white-barked pines,

almost black against the still white sky,

clouds over the bright blue tiles

of the small pavilion.

Far in the distance, all sense of perspective lost

in the subtleties of the mist,

hang the curling cliffs of the mountains,

without top or bottom,

wrapped in the twisting and winding scarves

of the April mist.

545. «In early spring, bright blossom liven…»

In early spring, bright blossom liven

the clay walls of Tung-Chow-fu.

Around the ancient town of Tung-Chow-fu

a great grey wall of brick and earth was built

some centuries ago. A deep, wide moat

was dug and filled with water.

None but friends

could enter through the barred and guarded gate.

Now peace hangs sweetly over Tung-Chow-fu.

The wall has crumbled down in many spots,

and only kingfishers disturb the sleep

of aged willow trees that, drooping, touch

the lazy curling wavelets of the moat.

All there is green and quiet.

In the spring

it is a joy to cross the stepping stones

and climb the wall, and see the almonds bloom

scarlet against the background of the grey.

546. «At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train…»

Listening to the evening stillness

at Wu-Chih-Mi.

At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train

stops.

I step off and breathe the summer warmth.