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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)
09:11 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
James Joyce
Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
Strings by the river where
The willows meet.

There's music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair.

All softly playing,
With head to the music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.

@темы: 20, e'ireann, english-british, j

09:42 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Grief

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

Giovanni Strazza - The Veiled Virgin

@темы: english-british, b, art, 19, victorian, sonnet, s, pittura

09:12 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Arthur O'Shaughnessy
Ode

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
1873

Edward Elgar - The Music Makers, Op.69

@темы: youtube, s, o, music, english-british, e, 20, 19

11:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Seamus Heaney
Stern

In memory of Ted Hughes

"And what was it like," I asked him,
"Meeting Elliot?"
"When he looked at you",
He said, "it was like standing on a quay
Watching the prow of the Queen Mary
Come towards you, very slowly."

Now it seems
I'm standing on a pierhead watching him
All the while watching me as he rows out
And a wooden end-stopped stern
Labours and shimmers and dips,
Making no real headway.



Seamus Heaney - Stern by poetictouch

@темы: english-british, e'ireann, 20, youtube, heaney, seamus, h, 21

12:27 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Gerard Manley Hopkins

@темы: h, english-british, 19

19:28 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Ciaran Carson

(с)

@темы: 20, c, e'ireann, english-british

08:06 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Hard Dying

By heaven and hell, and all the fools between them,
I will not die, nor sleep, nor wink my eyes,
But think myself into a God; old Death
Shall dream he has slain me, and I’ll creep behind him,
Thrust off the bony tyrant from his throne
And beat him into dust. Or I will burst
Damnation’s iron egg, my tomb, and come
Half damned, ere they make lightning of my soul,
And creep into thy carcase as thou sleepest
Between two crimson fevers. I’ll dethrone
The empty skeleton, and be thy death,
A death of grinding madness. - Fear me now;
I am a devil, not a human soul.

(from the fragments of "The Last Man", 1823-5)

@темы: english-british, b, 19

07:44 

Lika_k
Искусствоед


W. H. Auden
September 1, 1939

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

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пер. Шломо Кроль (SENTJAO)

@темы: youtube, thomas, dylan, links, english: anglo-american, english-british, auden, w.h., 20

02:31 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Rudyard Kipling
The Lovers' Litany

Eyes of grey -- a sodden quay,
Driving rain and falling tears,
As the steamer wears to sea
In a parting storm of cheers.
Sing, for Faith and Hope are high --
None so true as you and I --
Sing the Lovers' Litany:
"Love like ours can never die!"

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Редьярд Киплинг
Серые глаза - рассвет,
Пароходная сирена,
Дождь, разлука, серый след
За винтом бегущей пены.

Черные глаза - жара,
В море сонных звезд скольженье,
И у борта до утра
Поцелуев отраженье.

Синие глаза - луна,
Вальса белое молчанье,
Ежедневная стена
Неизбежного прощанья.

Карие глаза - песок,
Осень, волчья степь, охота,
Скачка, вся на волосок
От паденья и полета.

Нет, я не судья для них,
Просто без суждений вздорных
Я четырежды должник
Синих, серых, карих, черных.

Как четыре стороны
Одного того же света,
Я люблю - в том нет вины -
Все четыре этих цвета.

Пер. К. Симонов

@темы: к (rus), k, english-british, 20, 19

07:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Rudyard Kipling
Gethsemane

The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass—we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass-
It didn’t pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane!

Редьярд Киплинг
Гефсиманский сад

Была как Гефсиманский сад
Пикардия для нас.
И провожал нас каждый взгляд
На гибель каждый час.
На гибель нас, на гибель нас -
Хоть каждый выжить рад.
И заползал под маски газ
Там, где кончался сад.

Светился Гефсиманский сад
Сияньем женских глаз.
Но чаша близилась для нас -
И меркнул женский взгляд.
Да минет нас, да минет нас
Она на этот раз.
Помилуй, Боже, упаси -
И мимо пронеси.

Он не пронес, он не упас,
Не спас любимых чад!
Был в чаще смертоносный газ
Там, где кончался сад.

Пер. В. Топоров

@темы: к (rus), k, english-british, 20

15:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Robert Browning
One Word More

To E.B.B.
I
There they are, my fifty men and women
Naming me the fifty poems finished!
Take them, Love, the book and me together;
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

II
Rafael made a century of sonnets,
Made and wrote them in a certain volume
Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil
Else he only used to draw Madonnas;
These, the world might view--but one, the volume.
Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.
Did she live and love it all her lifetime?
Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets,
Die, and let it drop beside her pillow
Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory,
Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving--
Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's,
Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

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V
Dante once prepared to paint an angel:
Whom to please? You whisper 'Beatrice.'
While he mused and traced it and retraced it
(Peradventure with a pen corroded
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for,
When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked,
Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma,
Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment,
Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle,
Let the wretch go festering through Florence)--
Dante, who loved well because he hated,
Hated wickedness that hinders loving,
Dante, standing, studying his angel,--
In there broke the folk of his Inferno.
Says he--'Certain people of importance'
(Such he gave his daily dreadful line to)
'Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet.'
Says the poet--'Then I stopped my painting.'

VI
You and I would rather see that angel,
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno.

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[Originally appended to the collection of Poems called "Men and
Women," the greater portion of which has now been, more correctly,
distributed under the other titles of this edition.-R. B.]

@темы: 19, english-british, victorian

11:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
John Donne
Elegy IX: The Autumnal

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;
Affection here takes reverence's name.
Were her first years the golden age? That's true,
But now she's gold oft tried and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit;
And here till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere
In progress, yet his standing house is here:
Here where still evening is, not noon nor night,
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is Love's timber, youth his underwood;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platan tree,
Was lov'd for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at resurrection:
Name not these living death's-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes, yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties. So,
I shall ebb on with them who homeward go.

@темы: 17, d, english-british, metaphysical poets

00:31 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Alfred Tennyson
Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

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www.sparknotes.com/poetry/tennyson/section4.rht...

@темы: t, romanticism, links, english-british, antiquity, 19

09:44 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
09:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
William Butler Yeats
The Cloak, The Boat And The Shoes

'What do you make so fair and bright?'

'I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men's sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men's sight.'

'What do you build with sails for flight?'

'I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.'

What do you weave with wool so white?'

'I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men's ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.'

Уильям Батлер Йейтс
Плащ, корабль и башмачки

"Кому такой красивый плащ?"

"Я сшил его Печали.
Чтоб был он виден издали
И восхищаться все могли
Одеждами Печали".

"А парус ладишь для чего?"

"Для корабля Печали.
Чтоб, крыльев чаячьих белей,
Скитался он среди морей
Под парусом Печали".

"А войлочные башмачки?"

"Они для ног Печали.
Чтоб были тихи и легки
Неуловимые шаги
Подкравшейся Печали".

Пер. Гp. Кружков

@темы: 20, e'ireann, english-british, kruzhkov, grigory, y, yeats, w. b., и/й, к (rus)

09:36 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

@темы: 20, e'ireann, english-british, y, yeats, w. b.

00:39 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Dylan Thomas
When Mr Watts-Ewers
(Licensed to sell
Beer wine & spirits
And tobacco as well)
Advertised in the papers
He would open that night
His brand new hotel
The town had a fright -

Mr Alf Measure
Who kept the Bull’s Head
Wept like a baby
And took to his bed -

Mrs Lil Jenkins
Of the old Pig & Swill
Sacked all the barmaids
And was sick in the till -

In every saloon
And public too
There was such a commotion
As nobody knew -

For Mr Watts-Ewers
(Licensed for all
Drinking and Smoking
By men small & tall)
Had decided to call
His hotel the Liberty
Flipperty gibbetty
Liberty Hall-Hotel!

Oh, all drinks were free
(And cigarettes as well)
In Mr Watts-Ewers’
Brand-new hotel -

There were no set hours
There were no decrees
And nobody shouted
Time gentlemen Please,

For in Mr Watts-Ewers’
Splendiferous place
No gentlemen ever
Disgraced our fair race -

There was nothing to pay
And nothing to lose
In Mr Watts-Ewers’
Buckingham Palace of booze.

Dylan Thomas's drinking ditty to be published for first time

@темы: thomas, dylan, t, links, english-british, 20

09:21 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Seamus Heaney,
The First Words

The first words got polluted
Like river water in the morning
Flowing with the dirt
Of blurbs and the front pages.
My only drink is meaning from the deep brain.
What the birds and the grass and the stones drink.
Let everything flow
Up to the four elements,
Up to water and earth and fire and air.
(from the Romanian of Marin Sorescu.
From The Spirit Level)

@темы: h, english-british, 20, e'ireann, s, heaney, seamus

00:18 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
25.11.2013 в 21:50
Пишет Нэт Старбек:

В залежах викторианской поэзии нашла себе Августу Вебер, очень созвучную:

Poor little diary...

URL записи

@темы: w, victorian, repost, english-british, 19

11:25 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Charles Causley
Lord Lovelace

Lord Lovelace rode home from the wars,
His wounds were black as ice,
While overhead the winter sun
Hung out its pale device.

The lance was tattered in his hand,
Sundered his axe and blade,
And in a bloody coat of war
Lord Lovelace was arrayed.

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Чарльз Косли
Лорд Ловлас

С войны вернулся лорд Ловлас
Весь шрамами покрыт.
В январском небе солнца диск
Висел как блеклый щит.

В боях изломано копье,
Зазубрен верный меч.
Доспех - в запекшейся крови
От голени до плеч.

Он занемог, он изнемог
Но грусти нет как нет.
Он, майской пташки веселей,
Насвистывал куплет.

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@темы: к (rus), english-british, c, 20

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