Swinburne-Dedication 5

Swinburne & nbsp; Dedication
 (from Arabic).
 
 Sea shells struck
 in a present for pebbles and sedge,
 I've learned my trade -
 I create rhymed lines.
 Meanwhile the leaves are flying wildly,
 and the wind rips it like a hair,
 knocks down with laurels, with generous vines,
 and he raises his voice menacingly.
 
 In the night of rampant terrible blizzards,
 in the morning - horrific images,
 it's like there's snow all around,
 and in rivers violent avalanches.
 The foliage is brighter, then paler,
 and with it the fruits of private labors.
 Some of them show blood,
 others in a clear tear stains.
 
 Some have been erased in seven years...
 At first I thought I was very green
 and not ripe for entry into the light,
 where it was aimed from a young age.
 Now-among miracles and thunderstorms,
 where is the risk and the misery,
 where there are few myrtles or roses,
 and from love we do not wait for the offspring.
 
 Daughters of dreams and enterprise:
 Dolores, Faustina, Fragoletta,
 Juliette, Yolanda and Felice -
 to me, you are an ornament of light.
 Shall I not find you ?
 I'm dreaming: you are somewhere in the subconscious.
 And glad to kiss sometimes -
 not in reality, but only in a dream !
 
 They are like flashes in a light dream,
 like irises in loose dew,
 like the shadows of clouds in a window, -
 mobile, like a run of consonances.
 They are with the ebb tide
 go into the sea, as Naiads,
 and, like birds in the hour of night,
 they run away from the sight.
 
 Remained in the memory of discord
 all the songs of the dead seasons,
 the whistle of the wind, the cries of flocks of birds -
 a mixture of prowess and groans.
 Chants heard, dozing off,
 composed elegies and marches.
 Outside of classes, in the middle of fun,
 he was young and older.
 
 Will we find that corner,
 where poets were not born,
 where would people be alien to the bow,
 where wouldn't their mouths reach for the clarinet ?
 And is there a place on Earth,
 where all the joys of hunting,
 but the light would not yield to the darkness
 and would there be days without night ?
 
 Here are the wings of birds fluttering in the meadow.
 Their choice of location was clear.
 There's green by the river on the Bank
 and the air is pure and gracious.
 On the towers next to Yes in the fields
 they escaped from the rain and the heat.
 Couples were not tormented by fear,
 their love did not fade.
 
 Country with the glory of the century,
 where bright colors and legends,
 where peace reigns firmly, -
 all like a flower garden without fading.
 Always, as soon as spring comes,
 blush Sunny playing,
 couples in love that country
 in all, the replacement of Paradise.
 
 In all sad birds spring
 inspires a singing flame,
 a formidable fighting she
 calling to battle with the winds.
 So those without fear in the whirlwinds of storms,
 victory in the wild looking for drama,
 over the sea and into the azure,
 flickering petals.
 
 Lovingly rule nature.
 Be kinder in the material world,
 taking the power of your
 winged form in the starry expanse.
 Let now everyone who is poor,
 of the previously evaluated by You,
 will come to decorate Your hall
 and to please with poems.
 
 
  
 Algernon Charles Swinburne & nbsp; Dedication
 One thousand eight hundred sixty five
 
 The sea gives her shells to the shingle,
     The earth gives her streams to the sea;
 They are many, but my gift is single,
   & nbsp; My verses, the firstfruits of me.
 Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf,
   & nbsp; Cast forth without fruit upon air;
 Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf
     Blown loose from the hair.
  
 The night shakes them round me in legions,
     Dawn drives them before her like dreams;
 Time sheds them like snows on strange regions,
   & nbsp; Sweep shoreward on infinite streams;
 Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy,
     Dead fruits of the fugitive years;
 Some stained as with wine and made bloody,
     And some as with tears.
 
 Some scattered in seven years’ traces,
     As they fell from the boy that was then;
 Long left among idle green places,
     Or gathered but now among men;
 On seas full of wonder and peril,
     Blown white round the capes of the north;
 Or in islands where myrtles are sterile
   & nbsp; And loves bring not forth.
 
 O daughters of dreams and of stories
   & nbsp; That life is not wearied of yet,
 Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,
   & nbsp; Felise and Yolande and Juliette,
 Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,
     When sleep, that is true or that seems,
 Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,
   & nbsp; O daughters of dreams?
 
 They are past as a slumber that passes,
     As the dew of a dawn of old time;
 More frail than the shadows on glasses,
   & nbsp; More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.
 As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,
   & nbsp; When their hollows are full of the night,
 So the birds that flew singing to me-ward
   & nbsp; Recede out of sight.
 
 The songs of dead seasons, that wander
   & nbsp; On wings of articulate words;
 Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander,
     Light flocks of untameable birds;
 Some sang to me dreaming in class-time
   & nbsp; And truant in hand as in tongue;
 For the youngest were born of boy's pastime,
     The eldest are young.
 
 Is there shelter while life in them lingers,
   & nbsp; Is there hearing for songs that recede,
 Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers
     or blown with boy's mouth in a reed?
 Is there place in the land of your labour,
   & nbsp; Is there room in your world of delight,
 Where change has not sorrow for neighbour
   & nbsp; And day has not night?
 
 In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,
   & nbsp; Will you spare not a space for them there
 Made green with the running of rivers
     And gracious with temperate air;
 In the fields and the turreted cities,
     That cover from sunshine and rain
 Fair passions and bountiful pities
   & nbsp; And loves without stain?
 
 In a land of clear colors and stories,
     In a region of shadowless hours,
 Where earth has a garment of glories
     And a murmur of musical flowers;
 In woods where the spring half uncovers
   & nbsp; The flush of her amorous face,
 By the waters that listen for lovers,
     For these is there place?
 
 For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle
   & nbsp; Their music as clouds do their fire:
 For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle
     Wild wings in a wind of desire;
 In the stream of the storm as it settles
     Blown seaward, borne far from the sun,
 Shaken loose on the darkness like petals
   & nbsp; Dropt one after one?
 
 Though the world of your hands be more gracious
   & nbsp; and lovelier in lordship of things
 Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious
   & nbsp; Warm heaven of her imminent wings,
 Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,
     For the love of old loves and lost times;
 And receive in your palace of painting
   & nbsp; This revel of rhymes.
 
 Though the seasons of man full of losses
     Make empty the years full of youth,
 If but one thing be constant in crosses,
     Change lays not her hand upon truth;
 Hopes die, and their tombs are for token
     That the grief as the joy of them ends
 Ere time that breaks all men has broken
     The faith between friends.
 
 Though the many lights dwindle to one light,
   & nbsp; There is help if the heaven has one;
 Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight
     And the earth disposed of the sun,
 They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,
     When, refreshed as a bride and set free,
 With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,
   & nbsp; Night sinks on the sea.