Walt whitman (1819­–1992) One Hour To Madness And Joy

One hour to madness and joy!

O furious! O confine me not!

(What is this that frees me so in storms?

What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)

O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!

O savage and tender achings!

(I bequeath them to you, my children,

I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)

O to be yielded to you, whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me, in defiance of the world!

O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine!

O to draw you to me–to plant on you for the first time the lips of a determin’d man!

O the puzzle–the thrice-tied knot–the deep and dark pool!

O all untied and illumin’d!

O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!

O to be absolv’d from previous ties and conventions–I from mine, and you from yours!

O to find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of nature!

O to have the gag remov’d from one’s mouth!

O to have the feeling, to-day or any day, I am sufficient as I am!

O something unprov’d! something in a trance!

O madness amorous! O trembling!

O to escape utterly from others’ anchors and holds!

To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!

To court destruction with taunts–with invitations!

To ascend–to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!

To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!

To be lost, if it must be so!

To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!

With one brief hour of madness and joy.

Тема 14. Женская поэзия XIX века

Паньков Н.А. Художественное мышление Э. Б. Браунинг // Художественное мышление в литературе XIX–XX вв. Калининград, 1992. С. 122–133.

Моруа А. Роберт и Элизабет Браунинг // Иностр. лит. 2002 №5.

Pollock M. S. Elizabeth Barret and Robert Brownings: A Creative Partnership. Aldershot, 2003.

Алферовская Л. Г. Некоторые проблемы изучения поэзии Эмили Бронте // Вестн. Ленингр. ун-та. Сер. История. Языкознание. Литературоведение. 1980. № 20. Вып. 4. С. 64–71.

Хартли Л. П. Эмили Бронте в мире Гондала и Гаалдина // Бронте Ш. Эмма. М., 2000. С.330–341.

Венедиктова Т. Д. Обретение голоса: Американская национальная поэтическая традиция. М., 1994.

Венедиктова Т.Д. Поэзия Э.Дикинсон // Вестн. МГУ. Сер. 9. Филология. 1980. №5. С. 27–35.

Зверев А.М. Эмили Дикинсон и проблемы позднего американского романтизма // Романтические традиции американской литературы 19 века и современность. М., 1982. С. 226–309.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

A Musical Instrument

What was he doing, the great god Pan,Down in the reeds by the river?Spreading ruin and scattering ban,Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,And breaking the golden lilies afloatWith the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,From the deep cool bed of the river:The limpid water turbidly ran,And the broken lilies a-dying lay,And the dragon-fly had fled away,Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god PanWhile turbidly flowed the river;And hacked and hewed as a great god can,With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeedTo prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,(How tall it stood in the river!)Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,Steadily from the outside ring,And notched the poor dry empty thingIn holes, as he sat by the river.

‘This is the way,’ laughed the great god Pan(Laughed while he sat by the river),”The only way, since gods beganTo make sweet music, they could succeed.”Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!Piercing sweet by the river!Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!The sun on the hill forgot to die,And the lilies revived, and the dragon-flyCame back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,To laugh as he sits by the river,Making a poet out of a man:The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, –For the reed which grows nevermore againAs a reed with the reeds in the river.

Emily Jane Brontë (1818–1848)

Stars

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun Restored our Earth to joy, Have you departed, every one, And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes Were gazing down in mine, And, with a full heart’s thankful sighs, I blessed that watch divine.

I was at peace, and drank your beams As they were life to me; And revelled in my changeful dreams, Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought, star followed star Through boundless regions on; While one sweet influence, near and far, Thrilled through, and proved us one!

Why did the morning dawn to break So great, so pure a spell; And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red, he rose, and arrow-straight, His fierce beams struck my brow; The soul of nature sprang, elate, But mine sank sad and low.

My lids closed down, yet through their veil I saw him, blazinig, still, And steep in gold the misty dale, And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow, then, To call back night, and see Your words of solemn light, again, Throb with my heart, and me!

It would not do - the pillow glowed, And glowed both roof and floor; And birds sang loudly in the wood, And fresh winds shook the door;

The curtains waved, the wakened flies Were murmuring round my room, Imprisoned there, till I should rise, And give them leave to roam.

O stars, and dreams, and gentle night; O night and stars, return! And hide me from the hostile light That does not warm, but burn;

That drains the blood of suffering men; Drinks tears, instead of dew; Let me sleep through his blinding reign, And only wake with you!

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Maude Clare

Out of the church she followed them

With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid, Maude Clare was like a queen.

“Son Thomas,” his lady mother said, With smiles, almost with tears: “May Nell and you but live as true As we have done for years;

“Your father thirty years ago Had just your tale to tell; But he was not so pale as you, Nor I so pale as Nell.”

My lord was pale with inward strife, And Nell was pale with pride; My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare Or ever he kissed the bride.

“Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, Have brought my gift,” she said: To bless the hearth, to bless the board, To bless the marriage-bed.

“Here’s my half of the golden chain You wore about your neck, That day we waded ankle-deep For lilies in the beck:

“Here’s my half of the faded leaves We plucked from the budding bough, With feet amongst the lily leaves, - The lilies are budding now.”

He strove to match her scorn with scorn, He faltered in his place: “Lady,” he said, - “Maude Clare,” he said, - “Maude Clare,” – and hid his face.

She turn’d to Nell: “My Lady Nell, I have a gift for you; Though, were it fruit, the blooms were gone, Or, were it flowers, the dew.

“Take my share of a fickle heart, Mine of a paltry love: Take it or leave it as you will, I wash my hands thereof.”

“And what you leave,” said Nell, “I’ll take, And what you spurn, I’ll wear; For he’s my lord for better and worse, And him I love Maude Clare.

“Yea, though you’re taller by the head, More wise and much more fair: I’ll love him till he loves me best, Me best of all Maude Clare.

EMILY DICKINSON (1830–1886)

***

‘T was just this time last year I died.

I know I heard the corn,

When I was carried by the farms,–

It had the tassels on.

I thought how yellow it would look

When Richard went to mill;

And then I wanted to get out,

But something held my will.

I thought just how red apples wedged

The stubble’s joints between;

And carts went stooping round the fields

To take the pumpkins in.

I wondered which would miss me least,

And when Thanksgiving came,

If father’d multiply the plates

To make an even sum.

And if my stocking hung too high,

Would it blur the Christmas glee,

That not a Santa Claus could reach

The altitude of me?

But this sort grieved myself, and so

I thought how it would be

When just this time, some perfect year,

Themselves should come to me.