Читать книгу С миру по нитке. Поэтические переводы - Ирина Явчуновская, Сара Тисдейл - Страница 20

From the blood of Medusa

Pegasus sprang.

His hoof of heaven

Like melody rang.

He could not be captured,

He could not be bought,

His running was rhythm,

His standing was thought;

With one eye on sorrow

And one eye on mirth,

He galloped in heaven

And gambolled on earth.

And only the poet

With wings to his brain

Can mount him and ride him

Without any rein,

The stallion of heaven,

The steed of the skies,

The horse of the singer

Who sings as he flies.