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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)

A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
‘Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.’

And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.

@темы: h, english-british, 19, housman, a.e.


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

Say, lad, have you things to do?
Quick then, while your day’s at prime
Quick, and if ’tis work for two,
Here am I, man: now’s your time

Send me now, and I shall go;
Call me, I shall hear you call;
Use me ere they lay me low
Where a man’s no use at all;

Ere the wholesome flesh decay,
And the willing nerve be numb,
And the lips lack breath to say,
‘No, my lad, I cannot come.’

@темы: h, english-british, 19, housman, a.e.


William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

@темы: romanticism, english-british, 19, w


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

Look not in my eyes, for fear
Thy mirror true the sight I see,
And there you find your face too clear
And love it and be lost like me.
One the long nights through must lie
Spent in star-defeated sighs,
But why should you as well as I
Perish? gaze not in my eyes.

A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,
One that many loved in vain,
Looked into a forest well
And never looked away again.
There, when the turf in springtime flowers,
With downward eye and gazes sad,
Stands amid the glancing showers
A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

@темы: h, english-british, 19, housman, a.e.


Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Sonnet LXXXIII: Barren Spring

Once more the changed year's turning wheel returns:
And as a girl sails balanced in the wind,
And now before and now again behind
Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that laughs and burns,—
So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns
No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd
With the dead boughs that winter still must bind,
And whom to-day the Spring no more concerns.
Behold, this crocus is a withering flame;
This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom's part
To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art.
Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them,
Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem
The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.

Данте Габриэль Россетти
Бесплодная весна

Кружится быстро колесо времен;
И словно девочка на карусели,
Вся устремясь к какой-то дивной цели,
Летит, смеясь, — и ветер ей вдогон! —
Весна мне мчит навстречу; но, смущен,
Молчу в ответ; томят мой дух метели
Прошедших зим, и мне не до веселий —
Остыла кровь среди замерзших крон.
Взгляни: пророчит ландыш о снегах,
Цвет яблоневый, нежно оробелый, —
О Змие, что погубит плод созрелый.
Не радуйся же лилиям в лугах,
Не жди, когда рассыплется во прах
Вкруг сердца золотого венчик белый.

пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: р (rus), к (rus), и/й, sonnet, r, pre-raphaelite brotherhood, kruzhkov, grigory, english-british, 19


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
The sheep beside me graze;
And yon the gallows used to clank
Fast by the four cross ways.

A careless shepherd once would keep
The flocks by moonlight there, [1]
And high amongst the glimmering sheep
The dead man stood on air.

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Альфред Хаусман
Парень из Шропшира

Уныньем залил лунный свет
Овцу и всё, что мог,
Хоть виселицы больше нет
У четырех дорог.
Вот так же раньше свет луны
Оберегал овец,
И неподвижно с вышины
На них взирал мертвец.
Мы в Шрусбери повисли в ряд,
Был глух последний стон, —
Здесь ночью поезда скорбят
О тех, кто днем казнен.
А тот, кто жив, не может спать,
Судьбы постигнув зло:
Он лучше многих мог бы стать,
Да вот не повезло.
И будет утренний финал
Затягивать нули
Вкруг шеи, что Господь создал
Отнюдь не для петли.
Прервется жизнь одним рывком,
И мертвый воспарит
Так твердо, будто босиком
На лестнице стоит.
Я буду караулить тьму,
И колокол пробьет
Наутро другу моему
Последних восемь нот.
Пусть спит от сущего вдали
Ровесник тех парней,
Которых овцы стерегли
В ночи минувших дней.
Пер. А. Беляков

@темы: х (rus), housman, a.e., h, english-british, 19


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

ON your midnight pallet lying,
Listen, and undo the door:
Lads that waste the light in sighing
In the dark should sigh no more;
Night should ease a lover’s sorrow;
Therefore, since I go to-morrow,
Pity me before.

In the land to which I travel,
The far dwelling, let me say—
Once, if here the couch is gravel,
In a kinder bed I lay,
And the breast the darnel smothers
Rested once upon another’s
When it was not clay.

@темы: h, english-british, 19, housman, a.e.


Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
A Night In November

I marked when the weather changed,
And the panes began to quake,
And the winds rose up and ranged,
That night, lying half-awake.

Dead leaves blew into my room,
And alighted upon my bed,
And a tree declared to the gloom
Its sorrow that they were shed.

One leaf of them touched my hand,
And I thought that it was you
There stood as you used to stand,
And saying at last you knew!

Томас Гарди
Ночь в ноябре

Я заметил, что когда
Наступают холода, --
Ветра странствием полна,
Ночь в движенье полусна:

Листья в комнату летят,
Под кроватью шелестят,
Дерево, роняя их,
Плачет, словно о живых,

И когда тихонько вдруг
Тонкий лист коснется рук --
Это ты пришла опять
То последнее сказать.
пер. О. Татариновой

@темы: h, english-british, 20, hardy, thomas, г (rus)


Stephen Spender
My parents kept me from children who were rough
and who threw words like stones and who wore torn clothes.
Their thighs showed through rags. They ran in the street
And climbed cliffs and stripped by the country streams.
I feared more than tigers their muscles like iron
And their jerking hands and their knees tight on my arms.
I feared the salt coarse pointing of those boys
Who copied my lisp behind me on the road.
They were lithe, they sprang out behind hedges
Like dogs to bark at our world. They threw mud
And I looked another way, pretending to smile,
I longed to forgive them, yet they never smiled.

@темы: english-british, 20, s



G. K. Chesterton
The Sword of Surprise

Sunder me from my bones, O sword of God
Till they stand stark and strange as do the trees;
That I whose heart goes up with the soaring woods
May marvel as much at these.

Sunder me from my blood that in the dark
I hear that red ancestral river run
Like branching buried floods that find the sea
But never see the sun.

Give me miraculous eyes to see my eyes
Those rolling mirrors made alive in me
Terrible crystals more incredible
Than all the things they see

Sunder me from my soul, that I may see
The sins like streaming wounds, the life's brave beat
Till I shall save myself as I would save
A stranger in the street.

Г. К.Честертон
Волшебный меч

Отдели меня от костей, о Божий меч,
Пока они не встанут нагими и странными как леса.
И я, чье сердце взметнется с парящими кронами,
Изумлюсь чудесам.

Отдели меня от крови, что в темноте
Течет как красная древняя река,
Разветвленными потоками, не видя солнца, достигающая
Моря издалека.

Дай мне волшебные глаза, чтобы увидеть мои глаза,
Вращающиеся зеркала, ожившие во мне,
Страшные кристаллы, более невероятные, чем то,
Что отражается на их дне.

Отдели меня от души, чтобы я мог увидеть
Грехи как струящиеся раны, жизни катящийся ком,
Покуда не спасу себя, как бы я спас
Странника за окном.

Пер. Марии Попцовой

@темы: c, 20, 19, english-british, ч


A. E. Housman (1859–1936)

IF truth in hearts that perish
Could move the powers on high,
I think the love I bear you
Should make you not to die.

Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning,
If single thought could save,
The world might end to-morrow,
You should not see the grave.

This long and sure-set liking,
This boundless will to please,
—Oh, you should live for ever
If there were help in these.

But now, since all is idle,
To this lost heart be kind,
Ere to a town you journey
Where friends are ill to find.
("A Shropshire Lad", 1896)

Альфред Хаусман
Когда бы высшей силе
Я мог доверить кровь,
Спасла бы от могилы
Тебя моя любовь.

Когда б я только взмахом,
Лишь мыслью мог хранить —
Мир завтра станет прахом,
Ты бы осталась жить.

И чувств поток безмерный,
И пыл мой не утих.
Ты стала бы бессмертной,
Когда б спасенье в них.

Но тщетно все, и в пору
Тебе бы стать добрей
Перед поездкой в город,
Где не найти друзей.
("Парень из Шропшира")
Пер. Марии Попцовой

@темы: h, english-british, 19, housman, a.e.


Thomas Hood

No sun – no moon!
No moon – no noon –
No dawn – no dusk – no proper time of day –
No sky – no earthly view –
No distance – no street – no “t’other side of way” –
No end to any row –
No indications where the Crescents go –
No top to any steeple –
No recognition of familiar people!
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member –
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
No – vember.

@темы: english-british, 19, h


Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Dejection: An Ode

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There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
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Уныние: Ода

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В былые дни, хотя мой путь был крут,
Я часто скорбь веселостью борол
И знал, что сны фантазии соткут
Мне счастье из одолевавших зол.
И был увит надеждой, как лозой,
И мне моим казался плод любой.
А ныне я придавлен грузом бед,
Мне безразлично, что веселья нет
И отнимает каждый час
То, что всегда внимал я с детских лет:
Воображения узывный глас.
Одно могу я: стойко пренебречь
Мученьями рассудка моего
И, может быть, из сердца вон извлечь
Природное людское естество —
Не надобно мне больше ничего.
Да, часть былая целое мертвит,
И я почти привык к тому, что ум язвит.

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Пер. В. В. Рогов

@темы: english-british, c, 19, к (rus), romanticism


George Peele (1558?-1597)
A Farewell to Arms* (To Queen Elizabeth)

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,
But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,--
'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'
Goddess, allow this aged man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

* источник названия романа Хэмингуя

@темы: p, english-british, 16, renaissance english


George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

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Джордж Герберт (1593—1633)

Прохладный, тихий, яркий день,
Союз земли и неба... Что ж,
Твоя роса упала в тень,
И ты умрешь.

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@темы: links, h, english-british, 17, shakespeare, г (rus)


William Morris (1834–96)
The Blue Closet

The Damozels

Lady Alice, Lady Louise,
Between the wash of the tumbling seas
We are ready to sing, if so ye please:
So lay your long hands on the keys;
Sing “Laudate pueri.”

And ever the great bell overhead
Boom’d in the wind a knell for the dead,
Though no one toll’d it, a knell for the dead.

Lady Louise

Sister, let the measure swell
Not too loud; for you sing not well
If you drown the faint boom of the bell;
He is weary, so am I.

And ever the chevron overhead
Flapp’d on the banner of the dead;
(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)

Lady Alice

Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,
Two damozels wearing purple and green,
Four lone ladies dwelling here
From day to day and year to year:
And there is none to let us go;
To break the locks of the doors below,
Or shovel away the heap’d-up snow;
And when we die no man will know
That we are dead; but they give us leave,
Once every year on Christmas-eve,
To sing in the Closet Blue one song:
And we should be so long, so long,
If we dar’d, in singing; for, dream on dream,
They float on in a happy stream;
Float from the gold strings, float from the keys,
Float from the open’d lips of Louise:
But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through
The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;
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The Blue Closet - Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1856-57. The painting was the inspiration for Morris's splendid and equally strange poem of the same title, published in 1857 in his The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems volume. Morris had finished his poem in mid-December 1856

@темы: pittura, m, english-british, art, 19, pre-raphaelite brotherhood


Iris Tree (1897–1968)
Somewhere on earth
There is a purpose that I miss or have forgotten.
The trees stand bolt upright
Like roofless pillars of a broken temple.
There is a purpose in Heaven,
But for me

@темы: english-british, 20, t


Iris Tree (1897–1968)
I could explain
The complicated lore that drags the soul
From what shall profit him
To gild damnation with his choicest gold.
But you
Are poring over precious books and do not hear
Our plaintive, frivolous songs;
For we in stubborn vanity ascend
On ladders insecure,
Toward the tottering balconies
To serenade our painted paramours;
Caught by the lure of dangerous pale hands,
Oblivion's heavy lids on sleepless eyes
That cheat between unrest and false repose.
And we are haunted
By spectral Joy once murdered in a rage,
Now taking shape of Pleasure,
Disguised in many clothes and skilful masks.
I could disclose
The truth that hangs between our lies
And jostles sleep to semi-consciousness;
Truth, that stings like nettles
Our frail hands dare not pluck
From out our garden's terraced indolence.
We are not happy,
And you make us dumb with loving hands
Reproachful on our lips.
Nor can we sob our sorrows on your breast,
For we have bartered diamonds for glass,
Our tears for smiles,
Eternity for now.

@темы: english-british, 20, t


John Donne
The Baite

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.

There will the river whispering run
Warmed by thy eyes, more than the sun.
And there the'enamoured fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
By sun, or moon, thou darkenest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs, with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net:

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleavesilk flies
Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait,
That fish, that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.

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

Pure Poetry