Читать книгу Selected Poetry and Prose - Percy Bysshe Shelley - Страница 43

From THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, CANTO 28, LINES 1-51

And earnest to explore within—around—

The divine wood, whose thick green living woof

Tempered the young day to the sight—I wound

Up the green slope, beneath the forest’s roof,

With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain’s steep,

And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof

Against the air, that in that stillness deep

And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare,

The slow, soft stroke of a continuous . . .

In which the [ ] leaves tremblingly were

All bent towards that part where earliest

The sacred hill obscures the morning air.

Yet were they not so shaken from the rest,

But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,

Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,

With perfect joy received the early day,

Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound

Kept a low burden to their roundelay,

Such as from bough to bough gathers around

The pine forest on bleak Chiassi’s shore,

When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound.

My slow steps had already borne me o’er

Such space within the antique wood, that I

Perceived not where I entered any more,—

When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by,

Bending towards the left through grass that grew

Upon its bank, impeded suddenly

My going on. Water of purest hue

On earth, would appear turbid and impure

Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,

Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure

Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms

The rays of moon or sunlight ne’er endure.

I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms

Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating

The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms

Which starred that night, when, even as a thing

That suddenly, for blank astonishment,

Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,—

A solitary woman! and she went

Singing and gathering flower after flower,

With which her way was painted and besprent.

Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power

To bear true witness of the heart within,

Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower

Towards this bank. I prithee let me win

This much of thee, to come, that I may hear

Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna’s glen,

Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here

And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when

She lost the Spring, and Ceres her more dear.