Мария Визи - A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

In the sunset's orange glowing
How I loved to watch my star—
How I loved to watch it growing,
Coming nearer from afar!
It was brilliant, it was winking,
Shining straight upon my soul,
While the sun's red glove was sinking
Swiftly to'rds its daily goal.
Oh, my sapphire now deserts me!
It has left the Summer skies,
Now a vacant darkness hurts me
When I seek it with my eyes.
Ever northward falling, drowned
Past the gray horizon line—
Star of hope, that I had crowned
For a destiny of mine!

One day I saw a stink-bug small
А-sitting near me on the wall.
I said: «Tray tell me, Stink-bug dear,
What makes you suddenly appear
And light when no one wants you to,
As if the place belongs to you?
Will you not answer me?» I cried.
And, hark! The dirty bum replied,
As he looked up: «What did you think?
— I love to fly around and stink,
Because I know it makes you sore
To see me lighting on the floor,
Or watch me floating o'er your bed,
Or smell my presence near your head».
With this the grinning bug had flown
And left me, wondering, alone.

Oh, school's as great as great could be,
And all my friends around,
But it's Harbin and home for me,
And I am northward bound.
So hurry up, you lazy train,
And Farewell, old Tungchow!
Another day — and home again.
Oh, engine, why so slow?
Above North China's wheat and corn
The mists rise thick and white.
Oh, hurry on towards day, sweet morn,
For I'll be home tonight.
A happy winter this has been,
I love to live at school;
But now it's home, and it's Harbin,
— Enough of life by rule!
I want my home, and I am glad
That ere another day
I'll see my Mother and my Dad,
And Kitty at his play;
I'll have my chum again to kiss,
And I w on't work at all,
And never, never will I miss
The school outside the wall.
There won't be any rising bell,
With which the school awakes;
Instead of that there'll be a smell
Of homemade griddlecakes.
And I can stay in bed all day
Without that dose of oil,
And I can let my tired head
Rest from a Junior's toil.
And, Caesar, I'll forget you soon,
Though you have been my friend.
When will you cease, oh, engine's tune?
When will this journey end?

Alone, when once so many were around,
Who loved me so, and left me now alone!
And now, though once my sleep had been so sound,
I dream all night of faces I have known.
I talk to them of all I saw and learned,
I tell them all I have been thinking of;
I take such pride in praises I have earned,
i take such joy to see again their love!
But w hen the snow is melting on the range
Beneath the heated rays of coining day
Each morning brings too soon the loathsome change
And makes my lonely vision fade away.

Snow clouds came to rest on Baldy mountain,
When the sun had hidden in his den,
— After lights were low and voices quiet
In the valley cottages of men.

With a treasure they were heavy laden,
With the crystal blessings of the fr ost —
Such of which Old Baldy had been dreaming.
Which it loved and months ago had lost.

Only pictures of a Perfect Artist…
Wakened by the morning's early gleam,
Baldy stood majestically crowned,
— And the clouds were floating down their stream

What though passing clouds sent down their shadows?
Baldy's smile was deeper than before
For the soothing, purifying freshness
Which the falling snow had held in store.

The world is but a dancing hall,
Where all the people dance; and all
Can foxtrot, but a mighty few
Can waltz, — and one of them is you.

«Expectantly?» Suppose, you little fool,
A hunchback (but there are none in the school)…
Suppose a wench of some four feet and two
Would, since you ask, decide to visit you …
Or some gaunt giantess above six feet,
Such as the people laugh at when they meet…
Suppose she is bow-legged, and her hair,
Like that of ancient Furies, stands in air?
And let her face be harsh as mortal sin,
Belying any sparkle from within.
She winks an eye, distorts a ghastly cheek,
And then you hear, instead of voice, — a squeak!
Will you at that be able to disguise
The true interpretation of your eyes?
And generously willing to forget
The shock that you from such a sight would get?
But after all, you may be far amiss
And I may be Mister, not a Miss.
I really always hate to disappoint,
But «dazzling, flashing» are beside the point.
«Expectantly»… — You know not what you say!
Yet you may hear from me another day.

…This funny game — this life — is full of things
We guess not of. A mocking bird that sings
At dawn, in June, above your windowsill,
Charming your waking fancies with its trill —
Will fly away, and you will never see
Why it had landed on the neighbor tree.
Better to keep things hidden than unmasked,
Lest answers startle, if the truth be asked;
Kinder to let the goldfish float below,
Than, having caught it, watch its life-light go;
Safer to leave the morning star unfound,
Than, having held it, shatter on the ground…
— Leave, and be gone along the open trail,
Don't watch the sun until its glories pale.
So I will wander on, and so will you,
Our feet still wet with early morning dew,
A endless day still glimmering ahead—
That speaks of warmth and often burrs instead.
… We both are humans. That's where really lies
My sympathy for you; and though our eyes
Have never met, we many times have seen
The other's eyes, not knowing what they mean.
Another life, passed by along the way,
Forgotten in a week, yet near today.
Let us be merry; though the blissful hours
May be but few in this here life of ours.
Let us be happy; though the fairy wand
Touches but seldom each unfailing hand…

The cold waves, and the light underneath the waves,
— Is anything grayer — is anyone's welcome colder?
Yet dimmer and dimmer grows
The shadow of love's graves,
And barely my conscience saves
The parting touch of your shoulder.
In the ocean I seek repose.
Not even grief can mar
The beauty — when waters close
To silence love's echo.
And you are forgotten and far.

They took me to the door and showed
A narrow and a winding road,
Leading to wondrous things, that may
Be mine, if I but go that way.
I went, for I had naught to lose,
And saw no other road to choose.
And much the Powers freely gave
That I was fool enough to crave.
Beauty and Love and Youth I had,
And many friends who made me glad
That Higher Powers long ago
Had shown me just that way to go.
Yet often, oh, how often now
I want — if they but told me how —
To find that first wide-open door
And beg for just a little more.

It's eye for eye, and tooth for tooth,
And even the Eternal Truth
For every cruel word I've said
Breathes vengeance on my head.

I cast a rock into the well
And stood to listen how it fell.
How it went shooting through the deep.
Where frogs and water-serpents creep.
And as it reached the bottom black
I heard it give a sullen whack
And saw the bubbles at the top
And circles w’here 1 let it drop.
And now — I see the sky and sun
And I regret what I have done
And wonder if the silent stone
Remembers, where it lies alone
Among the creatures of the slime,
Its happier and brighter time —
And if it longs to see above
The sun, which I deprived it of.

Like colored glass is fair
when the porch is gray,
so all my days were
till you went away.
Like rainbows in the sky
following after rain,
so is the thought that I
may meet you yet again.
But, oh, the endless years
that I don't see your face
are cold and lonely years
in a lonely place.

Oh, tender dawn above the sombre pond,
where great, green drooping weeping willows crowd
to touch the sleeping water; and beyond —
the golden turrets of a rising cloud.

Oh, gentle wind, sweet scented breath that stirs
this silent waking water, — and the lace
of willows, and green saplings, and brown burrs
framing its face!

What can the heart within a human breast —
what can it do with that taut golden string
calling for all the agony and unrest
which make men sing?

Weep in such hours of ecstasy, oh heart!
Be silent, oh dark heart, — you cannot cool
your burning thirst from that deep, glittering pool,
or reach that sky light where the willows part!

Nothing there is that you can do. Lie low,
hide on the soft black earth, in the wet grass,
breathe not when this mild wind begins to blow,
hear not, nor watch how the green ripples go,
that, seeing you — helpless and suffering so —
those stirring hours take pity on you and pass!

So dawn creeps to dark waters, and so hope
to still, sick, sombre hearts, that vainly grope
throughout the night, not knowing that a day
is near, to end their sorrow and dismay.

How bright the ripples in the sudden glare
of morning, and the waking trees how fair!
Even my wingless heart can so forget
that it alone has not been lighter yet…