Стихи и эссе

     Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
     Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
     Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

     Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
     They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
     They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

     Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
     A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
     Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

     Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
     Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
     Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

March 1939

VOLTAIRE AT FERNEY

     Perfectly happy now, he looked at his estate.
     An exile making watches glanced up as he passed
     And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast,
     A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
     Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
     The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

     Far off in Paris where his enemies
     Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
     A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write,
     'Nothing is better than life'. But was it? Yes, the fight
     Against the false and the unfair
     Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilize.

     Cajoling, scolding, scheming, cleverest of them all,
     He'd had the other children in a holy war
     Against the unfamous grown-ups; and like a child, been sly
     And humble, when there was occasion for
     The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
     But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

     And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
     Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
     Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
     And only himself to count upon.
     Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
     Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.

     Night fell and made him think of women: Lust
     Was one of the great teachers; Pascal was a fool,
     How Emilie had loved astronomy and bed;
     Pimpette had loved him too, like scandal; he was glad.
     He'd done his share of weeping for Jerusalem: As a rule,
     It was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.

     Yet, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
     Earthquakes and executions: Soon he would be dead,
     And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
     Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
     Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead,
     The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

February 1939

IF I COULD TELL YOU

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play?
Time will say nothing but I told you so.