Джек Лондон. Юношеские стихи (пер. с англ. М.Лукашкиной)

When he came in
Why, I was out;
To borrow some tin
Was why he came in,
And I had to grin,
For he went without;
So I was in
And he was out.

Октябрь 1898

The snow was fast falling, the cold was intense;
But weary and hungry, his cares flew away,
And visions of dinners were calling him hence.

He dreamed of his home, of the dining-room table,
And servants that waited his every behest;
He longed 0 to eat, to eat all he was able,
For ah! of all dreams he had dreamed 'twas the best.

Then Fancy her marvelous miracles wrought,
And bade the thin starved one get out of his bed;
The Klondyke he left far behind him, he sought
The place where the hungered could always be fed.

He came in good season, the table was laid;
The rich, fragrant coffee was steaming and hot;
The pastries and puddings were there all arrayed;
The beefsteak was done, aye was done to a dot.

His fingers were trembling, so rich was the fare,
And when Grace was ended he murmured Amen!
And took, of all dishes, the beefsteak so rare;
Ah! he was the happiest man of all men.

The jaws of the sleeper are moving with joy;
Food quickens his palate, his hardships seem o'er;
A feeling of plenty steals over the boy—
"0 God! thou hast fed me, I ask for no more."

Ah! whence is that form which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound that now catches his ear?
"Tis the dog of the Klondyke thieving so sly!
"Tis a crunching of jaws, a crunching quite near!

He springs from the blankets, he seizes his gun;
Gaunt Famine confronts him with images dire;
But out of the tent goes the dog on the run,
For well he knows when it's time to retire.

The last piece of bacon is gone from the sack;
He weeps, 0 he weeps, for he knows what it means;
The last piece of bacon — 'twill never come back;
Henceforth his diet must be sour bread and beans.

0 'Klondyker, woe to thy dreams of good fare!
In waking they left thee, they left on the fly;
Where now is that beefsteak so juicy and rare;
The coffee, the pudding, the pastry and pie?

Весна 1897                         

He heard the wondrous tale and went
To Klondyke's golden shore;
A year of trial and toil he spent,
And found not gold galore.
And starved and frozen he returned,
Singing a sad refrain;
For nuggets he no longer yearned -
He never tried again.

The air rang loud with war's alarms,
And a soldier he became;
But Romance soon lost all her charms,
And life in camp was tame.
The drill was stiff, the grub was bad;
He slept out in the rain;
His captain was a beastly cad –-
He never tried again.

He met a pretty Summer Girl,
Who stole his heart away;
She was a precious little pearl
And could not say him nay.
But when he asked her for her heart,
She searched and searched in vain;
For sad to say she had no heart –- 
He never tried again.

Three times he'd tried, three times he'd failed;
It could not last alway;
On Harlem Bridge he wept and wailed,
And leaped into the bay.
The water cold, he called for aid,
And struggled might and main;
He could not swim, so there he stayed –-
He never tried again.

I saw a man open an iris petal.
He ran his finger underneath the edge,
unfolded it, and smoothed it out a little,
not as one guilty of a sacrilege —
because he knew flowers, and understood
that what he did would maybe help them grow –
though for a moment he was almost God.
Alone as we are, growing is so slow.
I think of one who tried like that to unfold
the margin of his life where it was curled,
to see into the shadows shot with gold
that lie in iris hues about the world.
Because he dared to touch the sacred rim,
does God resent this eagerness in him?

Январь 1899               

Just over the way where the rainbow fell,
I knew I would find a treasure of gold,
So I clambered over the fence pell mell,
Just over the way where the rainbow fell;
But I promised her I never would tell,
And I know if I tell you'll tell her I told.
Just over the way where the rainbow fell,
I certainly found a treasure of gold.

Ноябрь 1898

The leaves stirred softly overhead,
While from my hand a tale was read,
By laughing lips of rosy red;
My little Palmist.

0 that slight form so dainty-fair,
That pulsing breast, beyond compare,
That cadenced rise and fall of air! –
Of breaths the balm'est.

"This line, unbroken, deep and long,
Assurance gives of health most strong,
And truely 'twill thy days prolong;
The line Vitalis.

While this, so clear and firm and fine,
Say Cupid's toils about thee twine,
And happiest wedlock will be thine −
'Tis called Mensalis.

"And here, thy disposition gay,
Is quickly learned from lines which say,
That where you go or where you stay,
Your ways are jolly.

And yet again, these furrows blent,
One thing alone for thee is meant,
In Love's fond dalliance you've spent
Fair hours in folly.

"By this, and this, and this, is told,
Good friends about thee are enrolled,
While Love's delights, so manifold,
Thy life shall gladden.

Nor sudden sorrow, or swift pain,
Nor misery shall thee enchain;
Nor blighting curse, or dread murrain,
Thy heart shall sadden.

"Yet least among thy pleasures great,
There will a little maiden wait,
With love, as bird feels for its mate,
With love sincerest."

Ere yet she ceased, I knelt, a thrall,
As to my heart her last words fall, –-
"I've held naught back, so this is all,
For thee, my Dearest."

0 sweet that rippling flow of sound,
That fairy speech which wrapped me 'roundl
Those magic meshes 'bout me bound,
I would not sever.

0 sweet those pure, pellucid eyes,
Whose slightest glance I fondly prize! −
Ah God! in this, my paradise,
I'd-stay forever.

It seems but yesterday that we,
With hand in hand, and knee to knee,
Spent one sweet hour in childish glee;
My little Palmist.

But yesterday, − Ah well-a-day!
And where is now my little fay,
Who scanned my hand and went away?
O sing thou Psalmist.

I pause beneath the window high,
The door is locked, the house is guiet;
‘Tis there, abed, she sure must lie, −
To Wake her, -- ah! I’ll try it.

And pebbles hurtling through the air,
Strike full upon the window-pane,
Awaking her who slumbers there
With their insistent hurricane.

Ye gods! In my imagination,
The wondrous scene do I behold —
A nymph’s bewildered consternation
At summons thus so fierce and bold.

A moment passes, then I see
The gauzy curtains drawn aside,
And sweet eyes beaming down on me,
And then a window upward glide.

Fair as the morn, with rosy light,
She blushed with a faint surprise,
Then thinking of the previous night,
In dulcet tones she softly cries:

“It should have been put out by Nan,
But I’ll be down within a minute –
No, never mind, leave your own can,
And put two quarts, please, in it.”

That once I spent with thee,
And mint them all in coined gold –
What should I purchase that would hold
Their worth in joy to me?
Ah, love, another hour with thee!

Май 1897                   

Each gusty breeze that stirs the trees
Strikes on my silken kite
Sending melodies like these
Down from the living light.

The silken string (a dainty thing,
And white and "bright and neat),
I fasten to a phonograph
And make the breezes speak.

That's how I write my stories,
The wind upon the string
Makes clear the sun-sky glories
And tells me everything.

Март 1899

Pent in prisons dark and loathsome,
Cells of sorrow, 'reft of mirth,
In our rocky chamber, lonesome,
Slept we till our second birth, –
Slept we through the long, long ages,
Dreaming of the time to be,
Till God, turning many pages,
Deemed it fit to set us free.

Июль 1897                 

Nothing but comes too late with me,
No matter how I reason;
The fashions swiftly from me flee;
I'm always out of season.

My slim income with care I eke,
To gratify some passion;
But when I do it is antique,
Having gone out of fashion.

I struggle 'mid temptations great,
To take a brief vacation;
But upward climbs the railroad rate,
'Yond all anticipation,

When at the seaside I arrive,
The crowd is in the city;
No matter how I do contrive,
I miss them–more's the pity.

I never bought the latest hat,
Nor other 'bomination;
But that my friends said "Look at that,
It's older than creation."

And thus it is with all my clothes;
My neckties, trousers, waistcoats;
My cuffs, my studs, my shoes, my hose;
My summer suits and greatcoats.

I learned to waltz with hop and jump;
And then the dancers glided;
My friends thought me the biggest chump,
And all my 'tempts derided,

The cigarette I learned to smoke
With nausea most horrible;
But custom changed with one fell stroke
To briarwood pipes intolerable.

In. politics it is the same;
When tariff-struck, hilaric,
'Gainst free trade's evils I disclaim,
The crowd's gone bimetallic,

I never loved but that too late
I plead my adoration:
Another man had been there first,
To my great consternation.

At last one day, cursing my fate,
In dark despair to 'scape her,
'Twas told me on the brink, "Too late,
Suicide's no more the caper."

Nothing but comes too late with me,
No matter how I reason;
The fashions swiftly from me flee;
I'm always out of season.