Читать книгу Swann's Way - Marcel Proust, Marcel Proust - Страница 4

To

E. J. C.

Here, Summer lingering, loiter I

When I, with Summer, should be gone . . .

Where only London lights the sky

I go, and with me journeys "Swann"

Whose pages' dull, laborious woof

Covers a warp of working-times,

Of firelit nights beneath your roof

And sunlit days beneath your limes,

While, both at once or each in turn,

Sharp-tongued but smooth, like buttered knives,

We pared with studied unconcern

The problems of our private lives;

Those tiny problems, dense yet clear,

Like ivory balls by Chinese craft,

Pierced (where each hole absorbed a tear

And rounded (where the assembly laughed).

Did all our laughter muffle pain,

Our candour simulate pretence?

Fear not. I shall not come again

To tease you with indifference.

Yet I may gaze for Oakham spire

Where London suns set, watery-pale,

And dream, while tides of crimson fire

Sweep, smoking, over Catmos vale.

C. K. S. M.

Michaelmas 1921