LUNI
I, k’o gospa krhka i blijeda, smrću dodirnuta,
Što posrće, u veo od tila ogrnuta,
Iz sobe, u bludnji uma što slabi,
Bezumna i nejaka grabi,
Luna se diže na istoku neba tmurna
K’o neka bijela tvar opskurna.
Da l’ od umora blijeda si to
Što se po nebu penješ i zemlju motriš,
Što samotna lutaš isto,
Što međ' zvijezdama drukčijeg roda hodiš, —
U stalnoj mijeni, k’o bez radosti oko
Koje biće dostojno i vjerno da nađe nikako?
(Prevela Magda Jovanović)
To The Moon
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792-1822)
And, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy ?