Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)

D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
1. Tease

I will give you all my keys,
You shall be my châtelaine,
You shall enter as you please,
As you please shall go again.

When I hear you jingling through
All the chambers of my soul,
How I sit and laugh at you
In your vain housekeeping rôle.

Jealous of the smallest cover,
Angry at the simpler door;
Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,
Are you pleased with what’s in store?

You have fingered all my treasures,
Have you not, most curiously,
Handled all my tools and measures
And masculine machinery?

Over every single beauty
You have had your little rapture;
You have slain, as was your duty,
Every sin-mouse you could capture.

Still you are not satisfied,
Still you tremble faint reproach;
Challenge me I keep aside
Secrets that you may not broach.

Maybe yes, and maybe no,
Maybe there are secret places,
Altars barbarous below,
Elsewhere halls of high disgraces.

Maybe yes, and maybe no,
You may have it as you please,
Since I choose to keep you so,
Suppliant on your curious knees.

@темы: l, english-british, 20, lawrence, d. h.


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad
XLII. The Merry Guide

Once in the wind of morning
I ranged the thymy wold;
The world-wide air was azure
And all the brooks ran gold.

There through the dews beside me
Behold a youth that trod,
With feathered cap on forehead,
And poised a golden rod.

With mien to match the morning
And gay delightful guise
And friendly brows and laughter
He looked me in the eyes.

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And midst the fluttering legion
Of all the ever died
I follow, and before us
Goes the delightful guide,

With lips that brim with laughter
But never once respond,
And feet that fly on feathers,
And serpent-circled wand.

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


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

In my own shire, if I was sad,
Homely comforters I had:
The earth, because my heart was sore,
Sorrowed for the son she bore;
And standing hills, long to remain,
Shared their short-lived comrade’s pain
And bound for the same bourn as I,
On every road I wandered by,
Trod beside me, close and dear,
The beautiful and death-struck year:
Whether in the woodland brown
I heard the beechnut rustle down,
And saw the purple crocus pale
Flower about the autumn dale;
Or littering far the fields of May
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
And like a skylit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood.

Yonder, lightening other loads,
The seasons range the country roads,
But here in London streets I ken
No such helpmates, only men;
And these are not in plight to bear,
If they would, another’s care.
They have enough as ’tis: I see
In many an eye that measures me
The mortal sickness of a mind
Too unhappy to be kind.
Undone with misery, all they can
Is to hate their fellow man;
And till they drop they needs must still
Look at you and wish you ill.

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


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad

Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, ’tis nothing new.

More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.

Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there’s neither heat nor cold.

But from my grave across my brow
Plays no wind of healing now,
And fire and ice within me fight
Beneath the suffocating night.

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


A.E. Housman
A Shropshire Lad
XXVIII. The Welsh Marches

High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;
The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.

The flag of morn in conqueror’s state
Enters at the English gate:
The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
Bleeds upon the road to Wales.

Ages since the vanquished bled
Round my mother’s marriage-bed;
There the ravens feasted far
About the open house of war:

When Severn down to Buildwas ran
Coloured with the death of man,
Couched upon her brother’s grave
The Saxon got me on the slave.

The sound of fight is silent long
That began the ancient wrong;
Long the voice of tears is still
That wept of old the endless ill.

In my heart it has not died,
The war that sleeps on Severn side;
They cease not fighting, east and west,
On the marches of my breast.

Here the truceless armies yet
Trample, rolled in blood and sweat,
They kill and kill and never die;
And I think that each is I.

None will part us, none undo
The knot that makes one flesh of two,
Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
Strangling—When shall we be slain?

When shall I be dead and rid
Of the wrong my father did?
How long, how long, till spade and hearse
Put to sleep my mother’s curse?

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


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

Pure Poetry