Когда бы смерти лёд сковал
Тебя, в час меркнущего дня
Моя приникла б голова
К твоей груди. Главу склоня,
Лила б ты нежные слова,
Простив, ведь стала б мёртвой ты
И не покинула, в крылах
Почуя волю высоты.
Но знаю, волосы любимой,
Кровя, вокруг светил свились.
О если б ты в земле легла
Под шорох травный недвижимой,
И меркла, угасая, высь
He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead
Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of the wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:
O would, beloved, that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.