This is a very vast and lonely sea
That I am set to sail, and yet it seems
That I am not afraid. The guiding hand
Of a wise Pilot comes to beckon me
Across the blue expanse to a far land
Of peace and calm and beauty.
You, my dear,
Staying behind, you must not ever fear
This life!
If I could only tell
As clearly, somehow, as a silver bell
Might ring through the clear air of a bright day,
That I will never really be away
From you; not ever…
Will you try
To walk on, bravely, though a clouded sky
May threaten, though above a barren field
Thunder may roll, please promise not to yield
To doubt — remember always, as you grope
In darkest thickets — there is always hope.
— I am a little weary. Will you bring
A glass of water for me? Make it cold.
Thank you. That's better…
There's another thing
You must remember — that I've always told:
There is no white or black or yellow race,
But only Human. All are made the same,
For it is not the color of the face
Or the variety of given name
That shape the heart and educate the mind;
It is not what you see, but what you find.
— Oh, love, it seems I'm only getting started,
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.
вернуться
242
Variant in the last, line of the second stanza in the manuscript: «that we reach out to grasp».
вернуться
243
With notation on the manuscript of the cycle «My China»: «Some time years ago, probably in the 60s.»