Стихи и эссе - Уистан Оден

The Fall of Rome W. H. Auden

(for Cyril Connolly)

The piers are pummelled by the waves;In a lonely field the rainLashes an abandoned train;Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;Agents of the Fisc pursueAbsconding tax-defaulters throughThe sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic sendThe temple prostitutes to sleep;All the literati keepAn imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato mayExtol the Ancient Disciplines,But the muscle-bound MarinesMutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warmAs an unimportant clerkWrites I DO NOT LIKE MY WORKOn a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,Little birds with scarlet legs,Sitting on their speckled eggs,Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vastHerds of reindeer move acrossMiles and miles of golden moss,Silently and very fast.

TWO SONGS FOR HEDLI ANDERSON

I

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,Put cr?pe bows round the white necks of the publicdoves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.For nothing now can ever come to any good.

II

O the valley in the summer where I and my JohnBeside the deep river would walk on and onWhile the flowers at our feet and the birds up aboveArgued so sweetly on reciprocal love,And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recallWhen we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,The floor was so smooth and the band was so loudAnd Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand OperaWhen music poured out of each wonderful star?Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling downOver each silver and golden silk gown;'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenadeO his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,Every star rattled a round tambourine;Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:But you frowned like thunder and you went away.

Give me a doctor

Give me a doctor partridge-plump,Short in the leg and broad in the rump,An endomorph with gentle handsWho'll never make absurd demandsThat I abandon all my vicesNor pull a long face in a crisis,But with a twinkle in his eyeWill tell me that I have to die.

1951

О тиранах

Small tyrants, threatened by big,Sincerely believeThey love Liberty.

* * *

Tyrants may get slain,But their hangmen usuallyDie in their beds.

* * *

The tyrant's device:Whatever is PossibleIs Necessary.

* * *

When Chiefs of StatePrefer to work at night,Let the citizen beware.

Iceland revisited

(for Basil and Susan Boothby)

Encounter July 1964

* * *

Unwashed, unshat,He was whisked from the planeTo a lunch in his honour.

* * *

He hears a 1oud-speakerCall him wen known,But knows himself no better.

* * *

The desolate fjordDenied the possibilityOf many gods.

* * *

Twenty-eight years agoThree slept well here.Now one is married, one dead,

Where the harmonium stoodA radio:¬Have the Fittest survived?

* * *

Unable to speak Icelandic,He helped insteadTo do the dishes.

* * *

The bondi's sheep-dogand the visitor from New YorkConversed freely.

* * *

Snow had camouflagedThe pool of liquid manure:The town-mouse fell in.

* * *

A blizzard. A bare room.Thoughts of the past.He forgot to wind his watch.

* * *

The gale howled over lava. Suddenly,In the storm's eye,A dark speck,

Perseus in an air-taxi,Come to snatchShivering Andromeda

Out of the wildernessAnd bring her backTo hot baths, cocktails, habits.

* * *

Once moreA child's dream verifiedThe magical light beyond Hekla.

* * *

Fortunate island,Where all men are equalBut not vulgar-not yet.

THE PRESUMPTUOUS

They noticed that virginity was neededTo trap the unicorn in every case,But not that, of those virgins who succeeded,A high percentage had an ugly face.

The hero was a daring as they thought him,But these peculiar boyhood missed them all;The angel with the broken leg had taught himThe right precautions to avoid a fall.

So in presumption they set forth aloneOn what, for them, was not compulsory:And stuck hallway to settle in some caveWith desert lions in domesticityOr turned aside to be absurdly braveAnd met the ogre and were turned on stone.

Короткие стихи 1929-1931

1

Pick a quarrel, go to war,Leave the hero in the bar;Hunt the lion, climb the peak:No one guesses you are weak.

2

The friends of the born nurseAre always getting worse.

3

When he is wellShe gives him hell;But she's a brickWhen he is sick.

4

You’re a long way off becoming a saintSo long as you suffer from any complaint;But, if you don’t, there’s no denyingThe chances are that you’re not trying.

5

I am afraid there is many a spectacled sodPrefers the British Museum to God.

6

I'm beginning to lose patienceWith my personal relations:They are not deep,And they are not cheap.

7

Those who will not reasonPerish in the act;Those who will not actPerish for that reason.

8

Let us honor if we canThe vertical man,Though we value noneBut the horizontal one.

9

'These had stopped seekingBut went on speaking,Have not contributedBut have diluted.

These ordered lightBut had no right,These handed onWar and a son.

Wishing no harmBut to be warm,These fell asleep.On the burning heap.

10

Private facesIn public placesAre wiser and nicerThan public facesIn private places.

* * *

I'm beginning to lose patienceWith my personal relations:They are not deep,And they are not cheap.

* * *

Thoughts of his own death,like the distant rollof thunder at a picnic.

* * *

Bound to ourselves for life,we must learn how toput up with each other.

* * *

Fate succumbsmany species: one alonejeopardises itself.

* * *

The palm extended in welcome:Look! for youI have unclenched my fist.

* * *

Animal femurs,ascribed to saints who neverexisted, are still

more holy than portraitsof conquerors who,unfortunately, did.

* * *

Pulling on his socks,he recall that his gran-pawent pop in the act.

* * *

Man must either fall in lovewith Someone or Something,or else fall ill.

* * *

Nothing can be loved too much,but all things can be lovedin the wrong way.

* * *

I'm for freedom because I mistrust the Censor in office,But if I held the job, my! how severe I should be!

* * *

When he is wellShe gives him hell;But she's a brickWhen he is sick.

They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden…

They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden:It taught them nothing new. They hid their pride,But did not listen much when they were chidden:They knew exactly what to do outside.

They left. Immediately the memory fadedOf all they known: they could not understandThe dogs now who before had always aided;The stream was dumb with whom they'd always planned.

They wept and quarrelled: freedom was so wild.In front maturity as he ascendedRetired like a horizon from the child,

The dangers and the punishments grew greater,And the way back by angels was defendedAgainst the poet and the legislator.

At last the secret is out…

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sighThere is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up on the cement wall,The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

The Chimney Sweepers