Baptistry

One winter eve, at twilight, when the sound

Of sorrowful winds scarce troubled Nature’s rest,

As she lay sleeping, with her hair unbound,

Holding her grey robe to her shivering breast,

I enter’d through a low-arch’d oaken door,

Circled with curious sculpture; and I crept

With slow, hush’d footsteps, o’er the shadow’d floor,

Where organ notes in sudden silence slept;

Far down the aisle, where darkness seem’d to brood

With such wide-spreading wings, and where the sigh

Of murmur’d prayer scarce came,-until I stood

In the deep stillness of the Baptistry.

There, in the dim side-chapel, no bright glow

From jewelled windows on the wall was shed;

No sunbeams rested on the font below,

Or kiss’d those mighty arches overhead.

Soft lines and curves went upward, and were lost

In solemn shadow and in dreamy space;

Only the level floor was faintly crost

With glimmering brightness from the holy place.

And, as I listen’d, I heard music sweet

Trembling and swelling through the soundless air,

Threading dark aisles, as if an angel’s feet

Were bidden bring God’s message to me there.

Ah! and the echo of those anthem notes

Wanders and whispers in my heart for aye:

In all my life the mystic language floats,

Fitful and faint, as in my ears that day.

One whom we knew had enter’d into rest-

Calm on the pillow lay his hoary head;

And through that music spoke, in accents blest,

Our holy Mother’s voice, hallowing the dead,

Telling of perfect peace, of labours done,

Of long years’ sorrow turned to joy at last-

The quiet sleep, when battles all are won-

The hush of evening when the day is past.

I look’d upon the font, and mused of all

Its wondrous meaning, till my thoughts grew dim

And vast and shadowy as those columns tall;-

Morning of life for me-death’s night for him!

How fancy tried to span that awful space

Between the two-between the here and there!

To bridge the nave-up to that blessed Place

Where light and song stream’d on the chancel-stair!

Dim recollections drifted through my brain-

Echoing footfalls of past childish years,

When the baptismal robe had less of stain,

E’en though unwash’d by penitential tears.

I saw the gloomy shadows o’er my head,

And sigh’d to think how I had suffer’d loss;

I saw the soft light, and was comforted,-

I knew it shone straight from the chancel-cross.

A few more steps, and then I stood below

The towering minster coronet again;

Down on my face that pure and gentle glow

Fell, like a pitying kiss in time of pain.

Down to my feet it stream’d; a passage dim,

With hosts of phantom-shapes on either side,

It drifted through;-as songs of seraphim

Drift through our mourning hearts at Easter-tide.

Looking up then, I seem’d to see my life,-

A long, dim vista, where the rays descend-

Where light and darkness wage continual strife;

But only light-the full light-at the end.

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Poems in English 

• Владимир Набоков – Как часто я в поезде скором by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – К Родине by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Из мира уползли, и ноют на луне by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – И видел я, стемнели неба своды by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Глаза by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Есть в одиночестве свобода by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Еще безмолвствую и крепну я в тиши by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Цветет миндаль на перекрестке by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Будь со мной прозрачнее и проще by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Большая медведица by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Безумец by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Набоков – Барс by Владимир Набоков
• Владимир Маяковский – Журнал “Крысодав” by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Живой труп (РОСТА №182) by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Жид by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Земля наша обильна by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Застрельщики by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Заря Коммуны разгорается туго… (РОСТА №856) by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Заносы не дают железным дорогам жить… (РОСТА №838) by Владимир Маяковский
• Владимир Маяковский – Заграничная штучка by Владимир Маяковский

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