Читать книгу Selections from Poe - Эдгар Аллан По, Edgar Allan Poe, Marta Fihel - Страница 13

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

  Whose heart-strings are a lute;

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

  Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

  In her highest noon,

  The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

  While, to listen, the red levin

  (With the rapid Pleiads, even,

  Which were seven)

  Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

  And the other listening things)

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

  By which he sits and sings,

The trembling living wire

  Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

  Where deep thoughts are a duty,

Where Love's a grown-up God,

  Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

  Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,

  Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

  Best bard, because the wisest:

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

  With thy burning measures suit:

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

  With the fervor of thy lute:

  Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

  Is a world of sweets and sours;

  Our flowers are merely – flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

  Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

  Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

  A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell 50

  From my lyre within the sky.