Új Magyar Út, 1955 (6. évfolyam, 1-10. szám)

1955-06-01 / 6-8. szám

What can I do? I turn back to my singing. Compassionate in me, it courses strong.

Caught in its tide, my joes are bared and clinging: Naked they bathe them in the stream of song.

They cannot strike the goose-quill from my hand. My soul preserves its faith and sings its psalm. And though at times I gaze at fairyland,

My trembling voice maintains its lonely calm.

KIRKCONNELL: Reményi-versek angolul

MY LIBRARY

My books to me strangely like kinfolk are,

Like trusted brothers, quiet and unsleeping;

Down from the shelves they gaze, while still the jar Of uproar from the street its rage is keeping.

A multitude of works, they calmly wait And coolly cast their lettered eyes upon me. Perhaps they realize my plight of late When solitude by night had quite undone me.

They seem like sunlight, the thick clouds surprising, Or the fresh dawn on autumn gardens rising,

Or in the embers the immortal fire.

And all my worry, all my darkness bleak,

Are now like peace upon an Alpine peak.

It is my books have made my soul entire.

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