Ó íåñòåðïèìîé áîëè åñòü ãðàíèöû,
È íåðâû öåïåíåþò, êàê ãðîáíèöû,
Òâåðäååò ñåðäöå, ââåðãíóòîå â àä —
Â÷åðà — èëè ñòîëåòèÿ íàçàä?
Èíåðöèÿ âåäåò ïî êðóãó —
Êàê âüþãà, ìåæ íåáîì è çåìëåé,
Âëàäåíèå ñîáîé —
Âåëèêàÿ íàóêà —
Óñâîèòü êàìåííûé ïîêîé.
Íåïðîñòî ýòîò ïóòü
Îáðàòíî ïîâåðíóòü —
Òàê çàìåðçàâøèé âñïîìèíàåò ñíåã —
Äðîæü — îíåìåíèå — ñâèíöîâîñòü âåê —
***
Emily DICKINSON
341
After great pain, a formal feeling comes —
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs —
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round —
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought —
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone —
This is the Hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —