From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were – I have not seenAs others saw – I could not bringMy passions from a common spring —From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow – I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone —And all I lov’d – I lov’d alone.Then – in my childhood – in the dawnOf a most stormy life – was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery that binds me still —From the torrent, or the fountain —From the red cliff of the mountain —From the sun that ‘round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold —From the lightning in the skyAs it pass’d me flying by —From the thunder, and the storm —And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue)Of a demon in my view —
Один
Иначе, чем другие дети,Я чувствовал и все на свете,Хотя совсем еще был мал,По-своему воспринимал.Мне даже душу омрачалиИные думы и печали,Ни чувств, ни мыслей дорогихНе занимал я у других.То, чем я жил, ценил не каждый.Всегда один. И вот однаждыИз тайников добра и злаПрирода тайну извлекла, —Из грядущих дней безумных,Из камней на речках шумных,Из сиянья над сквознойПредосенней желтизной,Из раскатов бури гневной,Из лазури в час полдневный,Где, тускла и тяжела,Туча с запада плыла,Набухала, приближалась —В демона преображалась.
Elizabeth – it surely is most fit(Logic and common usage so commanding)In thy own book that first thy name be writ,Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;And I have other reasons for so doingBesides my innate love of contradiction;Each poet – if a poet – in pursuingThe muses thro’ their bowers of Truth or Fiction,Has studied very little of his part,Read nothing, written less – in short’s a foolEndued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,Being ignorant of one important rule,Employed in even the theses of the school —Called – I forget the heathenish Greek name —(Called any thing, its meaning is the same)“Always write first things uppermost in the heart.”