Anatoly Vorobey (avva) wrote,
Anatoly Vorobey
avva

дора гринвелл и мария ивановна (англ.)

Кто такая была Дора Гринвелл, Dora Greenwell? Совершенно забытая сейчас и наверняка малоизвестная при жизни английская поэтесса 19-го века (1821—1882).

Кто такая была Мария Ивановна, которой посвящено стихотворение Гринвелл "To Maria Ivanovna", опубликованное в сборнике стихов 1867-го года? Не имею ни малейшего понятия. Но стих меня задел чем-то. Не отсылкой к Шекспиру в четвёртой строке; чем-то другим.

Интересно, что такой стих сегодня интерпретируется только одним возможным способом — выражение лесбийской любви. В поэзии 19-го века, конечно, такое выражение нежных чувств и любви, от женщины к женщине — не сексуально совершенно.



TO MARIA IVANOVNA.

If dark be she I love, or fair,
  I ask not now; I do not seek
With her the lily to compare,
  To find the rose upon her cheek.
Such flowers as these grow everywhere;
With all things soft, and dusk, and rare
  I liken her; the woodbine feels
And finds her way with touches light;
She keeps her hold with tendrils slight.
  How close, how kind the woodbine steals!
The summer air is warm with bliss
All stolen from the woodbine's kiss.

Sit thou by me when eve has stilled
  And soothed the day's quick pulse to rest;
Let none be near us while we build
  Within each other's hearts a nest,
Of joys that fade, of youth that flies,
Of love that stays, of memories
That pass not with the passing day:
Sit thou by me; be sad, be gay,
So sweet thy smiles, so sweet thy sighs,
So soft thy clasp, so kind thine eyes.
Be what thou wilt, 'tis ever best;
Be what thou art, and I am blest!



И ещё одно поразившее меня своей свежестью стихотворение Гринвелл — стихотворение, имитирующее музыкальный темп, и так и называющееся: "Скерцо".



A SCHERZO.

(A Shy Person's Wishes.)

With the wasp at the innermost heart of a peach,
On a sunny wall out of tip-toe reach,
With the trout in the darkest summer pool,
With the fern-seed clinging behind its cool
Smooth frond, in the chink of an aged tree,
In the woodbine's horn with the drunken bee,
With the mouse in its nest in a furrow old,
With the chrysalis wrapt in its gauzy fold;
With things that are hidden, and safe, and bold,
With things that are timid, and shy, and free,
Wishing to be;
With the nut in its shell, with the seed in its pod,
With the corn as it sprouts in the kindly clod,
Far down where the secret of beauty shows
In the bulb of the tulip, before it blows;
With things that are rooted, and firm, and deep,
Quiet to lie, and dreamless to sleep;
With things that are chainless, and tameless, and proud,
With the fire in the jagged thunder-cloud,
With the wind in its sleep, with the wind in its waking,
With the drops that go to the rainbow's making,
Wishing to be with the light leaves shaking,
Or stones on some desolate highway breaking;
Far up on the hills, where no foot surprises
The dew as it falls, or the dust as it rises;
To be couched with the beast in its torrid lair,
Or drifting on ice with the polar bear,
With the weaver at work at his quiet loom;
Anywhere, anywhere, out of this room!


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