William Ernest Henley (Уильям Эрнст Хенли)
Rhymes and Rhythms. Prologue
Something is dead . . . The grace of sunset solitudes, the march Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power Of round on round of shining soldier-stars Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun— Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable— The multitudinous friendliness of the sea, Possess no more—no more. Something is dead . . . The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs, His melancholy close and closer yet Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring That made the heart a centre of miracles Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours Arise no more—no more. Something is dead . . . ’Tis time to creep in close about the fire And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice In the young life that round us leaps and laughs, A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride Of God’s best gift that to us twain returns, Dear Heart, no more—no more.
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