Читать книгу Canaletto - Octave Uzanne - Страница 2

In Venice the Red,

No boat moves.

There is no fisher on the waters,

No lantern to be seen.

Alone, sitting on the strand,

On top of the serene horizon,

The great lion raises

Its bronze paw.

All around, in groups,

Are ships and rowboats.

Like herons

Resting in circles,

They sleep on top of smoky water

And cross,

With their flags, through the mist,

Caught up in light whirlwinds.

The fading moon

Hides its face that passes away

Against a starry,

Half-veiled cloud.

Then, the Saint Croix abbess

Pulls her cloak,

With the large folds,

Down over her surplice.

And then there are ancient palaces,

Solemn porticoes,

And the knight’s

White staircases,

The bridges and streets,

The mournful statues,

And the gulf moves,

Rippling under the wind.

All is quiet,

Save the guards with long halberds

Who watch

Through the arsenal’s crenellations.

Ah! More than one waits

In the moonlight.

Some young dandy

Keeps his ears open.

More than one who adorns herself

For the ball being prepared

Sets down a black mask

In front of the mirror.

On top of her bed, embalmed,

The rapturous Vanina

Is still embracing her lover,

As she drops off to sleep;

And mad Narcissa,

At the back of her gondola

Forgets herself

As she indulges in a feast that lasts till morning.

And who, in Italy,

Does not have a touch of madness?

Who does not save

Their most beautiful days for love?

Let’s leave behind the old clock

At the old doge’s palace,

As they count out the long-lasting boredom

Of his nights.

Instead, my beauty,

Let’s count all those many kisses,

Given…or forgiven

On your restive mouth.

Instead, let’s count your charms

And the sweet tears

That, in our eyes,

Sensuality has cost!