-- How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe, <br />amidst my shame -- <br /> <br /> <br />-- In stony Troezen will be an infamous calamity, <br />the royal staircase will grow red with disgrace, <br />. . . . . . . . . . . . <br />. . . . . . . . . . . . <br />and for the mother in love, <br />the black sun will rise. <br /> <br /> <br />-- O, if hate would boil in my breast -- <br />but see, the admission itself <br />has fallen from my lips. <br /> <br /> <br />-- Phedre burns in a black flame <br />in broad daylight. <br />The funeral torch fumes <br />in broad white daylight. <br />Dread your mother, Hippolytus: <br />Phedre -- night -- watche s over you <br />in broad white day. <br /> <br /> <br />-- I have stained the sun with black love . . . <br />Death from a bottle will cool my ardor -- <br />. . . . . . . . . . . . . . <br /> <br /> <br />-- We are afraid, we do not dare <br />relieve the king's grief. <br />Wounded by Theseus, night <br />fell upon him. But we, <br />with a funeral song bringing home the dead, <br />will pacify the black sun <br />of wild and sleepless passion.<br /><br />Osip Emilevich Mandelstam<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/how-hard-for-me-the-splendor-of-this-crown-and-robe/
