Я ПЛАЧУ СНОВА
И Я УМРУ, НЕ УЗРЕВ СВЯТОГО
Happy they, Thrice fortunate who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall. They can ne’er behold The long year linked with heavy day on day And all which must be borne and never told, While life’s strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die. |
‘Whom the gods love, die young’ was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends and that which slays even more, The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath. And since the silent shore Awaits at last even those whom longest miss The old archer’s shafts, perhaps the early grave, Which men weep over, may be meant to save. |