Эдвин Робинсон. Мельница

The Mill

The miller's wife had waited long,
The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
And there might yet be nothing wrong
In how he went and what he said:

«There are no millers any more,»
Was all that she had heard him say;
And he had lingered at the door
So long that it seemed yesterday.

Sick with a fear that had no form
She knew that she was there at last;
And in the mill there was a warm
And mealy fragrance of the past.

What else there was would only seem
To say again what he had meant;
And what was hanging from a beam
Would not have heeded where she went.

And if she thought it followed her,
She may have reasoned in the dark
That one way of the few there were
Would hide her and would leave no mark:

Black water, smooth above the weir
Like starry velvet in the night,
Though ruffled once, would soon appear
The same as ever to the sight.
 
Edwin Arlington Robinson


Мельница

Она до полночи ждала–
остыл чаёк, очаг остыл–
и вспоминала как могла,
как уходя сказал в чём был:

«И нету мельника, смотри...»–
и петли скрипнули «пора».
Он миг помялся у двери,
но это было тут вчера.

Она на мельницу как пух
бегом от страха не своя,
а там мучицы тёплый дух,
а там водицы по края.

И замололо на уме
«мука мучение одно»–
но тот, словесно неумел,
не смел добавить в рифму «дно».

Сама ночная темнота,
и не подумала она
что он бесследно только там:
поди достань его со дна.

Соболий бархат в перлах звёзд,
зерцало– тоже дверь– воды,
вдове оставив муки воз,
за миг упрятало следы.

перевод с английского Терджимана Кырымлы