Читать книгу Poems - Victor Hugo, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 33

     Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,

       His course through the forest uncaring;

     To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast

       In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

     All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste,

       As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;

     When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,

       And round her the breezes are dancing.

     On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush

       Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver;

     Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush,

       And the murmuring fall of the river.

     By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,

       To catch the sweet breath of the roses;

     Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain

       'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

     Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,

       Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;

     Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh,

       And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

     On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,

       A charm that would lead to the bower;

     Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,

       At the dawn and the vesper hour.

     Then hovering down on her brow would I light,

       'Midst her golden tresses entwining;

     That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,

       And the sunbeams upon it shining.

     A single frail gem on her beautiful head,

       I should sit in the golden glory;

     And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread

       Round the brow of kings famous in story.