Стихи и эссе

Оден Уистан Хью

Lullaby

Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephermeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful. Soul and body have no bounds: To lovers as they lie upon Her tolerant enchanted slope In their ordinary swoon, Grave the vision Venus sends Of supernatural sympathy, Universal love and hope; While an abstract insight wakes Among the glaciers and the rocks The hermit's sensual ecstasy. Certainty, fidelity On the stroke of midnight pass Like vibrations of a bell, And fashionable madmen raise Their pedantic boring cry: Every farthing of the cost, All the dreadful cards foretell, Shall be paid, but not from this night Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost. Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of sweetness show Eye and knocking heart may bless. Find the mortal world enough; Noons of dryness see you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.

O What Is That Sound

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear Down inthe valley drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear, The soldiers coming. O what is that light I see flashing so clear Over the distance brightly, brightly? Only the sun on their weapons, dear, As they step lightly. O what are they doing with all that gear What are they doing this morning, this morning? Only the usual manoeuvres, dear, Or perhaps a warning. O why have they left the road down there Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling? Perhaps a change in the orders, dear, Why are you kneeling? O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care Haven't they reined their horses, their horses? Why, they are none of them wounded, dear, None of these forces. O is it the parson they want with white hair; Is it the parson, is it, is it? No, they are passing his gateway, dear, Without a visit. O it must be the farmer who lives so near It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning? They have passed the farm already, dear, And now they are running. O where are you going? stay with me here! Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving? No, I promised to love you, dear, But I must be leaving. O it's broken the lock and splintered the door, O it's the gate where they're turning, turning Their feet are heavy on the floor And their eyes are burning.

The Fall of Rome W. H. Auden

(for Cyril Connolly)

The piers are pummelled by the waves; In a lonely field the rain Lashes an abandoned train; Outlaws fill the mountain caves. Fantastic grow the evening gowns; Agents of the Fisc pursue Absconding tax-defaulters through The sewers of provincial towns. Private rites of magic send The temple prostitutes to sleep; All the literati keep An imaginary friend. Cerebrotonic Cato may Extol the Ancient Disciplines, But the muscle-bound Marines Mutiny for food and pay. Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK On a pink official form. Unendowed with wealth or pity, Little birds with scarlet legs, Sitting on their speckled eggs, Eye each flu-infected city. Altogether elsewhere, vast Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss, Silently and very fast.

TWO SONGS FOR HEDLI ANDERSON

I

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put cr?pe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.

II

O the valley in the summer where I and my John Beside the deep river would walk on and on While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love, And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play': But he frowned like thunder and he went away. O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball, The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud; 'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day': But he frowned like thunder and he went away. Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera When music poured out of each wonderful star? Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down Over each silver and golden silk gown; 'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say: But he frowned like thunder and he went away. O but he was fair as a garden in flower, As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower, When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart; 'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey': But he frowned like thunder and he went away. O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover, You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other, The sea it was blue and the grass it was green, Every star rattled a round tambourine; Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay: But you frowned like thunder and you went away.

Give me a doctor

Give me a doctor partridge-plump, Short in the leg and broad in the rump, An endomorph with gentle hands Who'll never make absurd demands That I abandon all my vices Nor pull a long face in a crisis, But with a twinkle in his eye Will tell me that I have to die.

1951

О

тиранах

Small tyrants, threatened by big, Sincerely believe They love Liberty.

* * *

Tyrants may get slain, But their hangmen usually Die in their beds.

* * *

The tyrant's device: Whatever is Possible Is Necessary.

* * *

When Chiefs of State Prefer to work at night, Let the citizen beware.

Iceland revisited

(for Basil and Susan Boothby)

Encounter July 1964

* * *

Unwashed, unshat, He was whisked from the plane To a lunch in his honour.

* * *

He hears a 1oud-speaker Call him wen known, But knows himself no better.

* * *

The desolate fjord Denied the possibility Of many gods.

* * *

Twenty-eight years ago Three slept well here. Now one is married, one dead, Where the harmonium stood A radio:¬ Have the Fittest survived?

* * *

Unable to speak Icelandic, He helped instead To do the dishes.

* * *

The bondi's sheep-dog and the visitor from New York Conversed freely.

* * *

Snow had camouflaged The pool of liquid manure: The town-mouse fell in.

* * *

A blizzard. A bare room. Thoughts of the past. He forgot to wind his watch.

* * *

The gale howled over lava. Suddenly, In the storm's eye, A dark speck, Perseus in an air-taxi, Come to snatch Shivering Andromeda Out of the wilderness And bring her back To hot baths, cocktails, habits.

* * *

Once more A child's dream verified The magical light beyond Hekla.