Поэзия Канады (Эмили Полин Джонсон)

Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away.

But all alone I had to live until there came a day

When, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too,

I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

II

One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day,

And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay,

When something made me look around – I scarce believed my mind -

But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind.

A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater one

Of anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun,

That Rove was after, – well, sir, I just don't mind telling you,

But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.

Perhaps it was but jealousy – perhaps it was despair,

But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there;

And then – my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whine

With pain – God knows how tenderly I took that dog of mine

Up in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bands

To bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands;

And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew,

Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.

I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be,

And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me.

Look, sir, at that big, noble soul, right in his faithful eyes,

The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies.

Eh, Squire? What's that you say? He's got no soul? I tell you, then,

He's grander and he's better than the mass of what's called men;

And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us do

Of seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.

Брандон

(Акростих)

Был на груди канадской прерии, улыбчивой под солнцем,

Рожден от материнской почвы, в дорогих полях пшеницы,

А ныне бойких всех, когда мечта стучит в ворота за оконцем,

На плодородной ждут земле, чтоб с тучных акров поживиться,

Дана мечта голодным миллионам на рассвете сытном века,

О человеческой нужде из древних книг узнают дети человека,

Народам даст зерно из кладовых, и это божья за труды опека.

Brandon

(ACROSTIC)

Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire – the sun,

Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil,

Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.

Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,

Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,

Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;

Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.

Шиповник в Страстную Пятницу

Поскольку, дорогой Христос, израненные руки

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