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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)

Британский диктатор
Edwin Muir (1887-1959)

O Merlin in your crystal cave
Deep in the diamond of the day,
Will there ever be a singer
Whose music will smooth away
The furrow drawn by Adam's finger
Across the memory and the wave?
Or a runner who'll outrun
Man's long shadow driving on,
Break through the gate of memory
And hang the apple on the tree?
Will your magic ever show
The sleeping bride shut in her bower,
The day wreathed in its mound of snow
and Time locked in his tower?

Эдвин Мюир

О, Мерлин, грезящий в хрустальном гроте
среди алмазного сиянья дня.
Найдется ли еще певец, чье пение сравняет
Адамова перста деяния?
Найдется ли бегун, кто, тень свою опережая,
ворвется во врата истории, злосчастный плод
на место возвращая?
Увидим ли еще, как волшебство твое
откроет взору нашему невесту в будуаре,
иль день, увенчанный снегами,
иль время узникам своим.

перевод обнаружился в эпиграфе "Хрустального грота" Мэри Стюарт, имя переводчика найти не удалось. Возможно, перевод принадлежит переводчику самого романа - Анне Комаринец

@темы: m, ga'idhlig, english-other, english-british, celtic themes, 20, middle centuries, м


Британский диктатор
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tone, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;
Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

Недавно наткнулась на восторженные вздохи некой дамы о том, что вот тут представлен идеальный рыцарь в сияющих латах, мечта любой женщины. А мне всегда казалось что этому рыцарю дама в качестве женщины просто не нужна, а даме незачем опасаться его в качестве мужчины)

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


Британский диктатор
William Butler Yeats
Brown Penny

I whispered, "I am too young,"
And then, "I am old enough";
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair."
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

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


Британский диктатор
William Butler Yeats
A Dream Of Death

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
She was more beautiful than thy first love,
But now lies under boards.

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


Британский диктатор
Robert Browning
Caliban upon Setebos

"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."
(David, Psalms 50.21)

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:
And while above his head a pompion-plant,
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,
And now a flower drops with a bee inside,
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,—
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please,
Touching that other, whom his dam called God.
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Sparknote's study guide of the poem

@темы: shakespeare, links, english-british, english, b, 19, victorian


Британский диктатор
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:—

Or like forgotten lyres whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest—a dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:—

It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free;
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.

Шелли Перси Биши

Мы, словно облака вокруг луны, -
Летим сквозь ночь, трепещем и блистаем.
Сомкнется тьма - и вмиг поглощены,
Мы навсегда бесследно исчезаем.

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@темы: romanticism, english-british, 19, s, ш/щ


Британский диктатор
W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)
The Cat and the Moon

The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe* stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn.
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.

* Minnaloushe allegedly belonged to Maude Gonne or her daughter Iseult Gonne or Lady Gregory

Уильям Батлер Йейтс.
Кот и Луна

Пер. Гр. Кружков

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


Британский диктатор
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
The Minstrel Boy

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!"

John McDermott

@темы: music, m, english-british, e'ireann, 19, youtube


Британский диктатор
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
The Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Joan Sutherland

@темы: music, m, english-british, e'ireann, 19, youtube


Британский диктатор
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
Those evening bells

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so ’t will be when I am gone,—
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

Вольный перевод Ивана Козлова
Вечерний звон

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@темы: english-british, e'ireann, 19, m, м


Британский диктатор
Matthew Arnold
Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

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@темы: english-british, a, 19, victorian


Британский диктатор

Британский диктатор
Джо Шапкотт

Что делать мне с носорогом,
который внутри поселился?
Дам ему свежего сена,

шершавую шкуру до блеска
натру ему
маслом миндальным

два потемневших рога

потру загрубевшие пятки
в тазике с розовой пеной,
а после скажу ему:

можешь идти к самой грязной
луже в моей душе,
и валяться, валяться, валяться.

Пер. с английского А.Щетининой

@темы: ш/щ, english-british, 20


Британский диктатор
Dylan Thomas
Your breath was shed
Invisible to make
About the soiled undead
Night for my sake,

A raining trail
Intangible to them
With biter’s tooth and tail
And cobweb drum,

A dark as deep
My love as a round wave
To hide the wolves of sleep
And mask the grave.

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


Британский диктатор
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Sudden Light

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,-
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
You neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,- I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall to thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

@темы: p, english-british, 19, pre-raphaelite brotherhood, r


Британский диктатор
George Meredith
Lucifer in Starlight

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened,
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leaned,
Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened,
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars
With memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reached a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.

...toward the coast of Earth beneath,
Down from th' Ecliptic, sped with hop'd success, [ 740 ]
Throws his steep flight in many an Aerie wheele,
Nor staid, till on Niphates top he lights.

J. Milton, "Paradise lost", Book III, 739–742
Gustave Doré
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Забавно, что в англоязычных любительских анализах (по крайней мере в тех, которые я видела) все зациклены на просто библейской + мимоходом мильтоновской тематике без единого упоминания самого очевидного, что при этом намеком указано уже в названии стихотворения - то, что Люцифер - это кроме всего прочего еще и звезда. А ведь это придает всему стихотворению еще более широкий, поистине божественно-космический размах.

@темы: m, illustrations, francaise, english-british, citatus, 19, 17, pittura


Британский диктатор
Thomas Kinsella (1928- )
The Poet Egan O'Rahilly, Homesick in Old Age

He climbed to his feet in the cold light, and began
The decrepit progress again, blown along the cliff road,
Bent with curses above the shrew his stomach.

The salt abyss poured through him, more raw
With every laboured, stony crash of the waves:
His teeth bared at their voices, that incessant dying.

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Томас Кинселла
Поэт Эган О’Рейли в старости без крова

Он встал на холодной заре и снова побрел
По кремнистой дороге, ветром толкаемый в спину,
Прислушиваясь к бурчащему, как старая карга, животу.

Прибой обдавал его солеными брызгами. Он промокал
Все больше с каждым ударом волн об утес:
Их бессмертная ярость его забавляла.

Стебли ириса склонялись над ручьем. На ветру
Трепетали расслабленно духи, принявшие вид
Листьев, и, как обреченного, провожали его бормотаньем.

Он сомкнул багровые веки. Пришельцы ползли,
Королевские замки челюстями круша,
К небесам обращая металлические жующие морды.

«О королевичи, избравшие горечь изгнанья!
Где б я ни странствовал, всюду встречал
Эти высокие башни, оставленные навсегда.

Так же, как ваших детей, голодных досель —
Хоть я и питал их души упорной хвалой, —
Я вас заключаю в прохладный приют моего ремесла.

Враги наши множатся. Уже и море на их стороне.
Этой ночью прибой, грохоча, не давал мне уснуть.
Утром зубатка с улиткой скрипят в животе…»

пер. Гр. Кружкова

see the poem by O'Rahilly that Kinsella is drawing on

@темы: к (rus), links, kruzhkov, grigory, k (rus), english-british, e'ireann, 20, 18


Британский диктатор
Aogán Ó Rathaille
Is Fada Liom Oíche Fhírfhliuch

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Egan O'Rahilly
The Drenching Night Drags On

The drenching night drags on: no sleep or snore,
no stock, no wealth of sheep, no horned cows.
This storm on the waves nearby has harrowed my head
-- I who ate no winkles or dogfish in my youth!
If that guardian King from the bank of the Leamhan lived on,
with all who shared his fate (and would pity my plight)
to rule that soft, snug region, bayed and harboured,
my people would not stay poor in Duibhne country.

Great Carthy, fierce and fine, who loathed deceit;
with Carthy of the Laoi, in yoke unyielding, faint;
and Carthy King of Ceann Toirc with his children, buried;
it is bitterness through my heart they have left no trace.

My heart has dried in my ribs, my humours soured,
that those never-niggardly lords, whose holdings ranged
from Caiseal to Cliona's Wave and out to Thomond,
are savaged by alien hordes in land and townland.

You wave down there, lifting your loudest roar,
the wits in my head are worsted by your wails.
If help ever came to lovely Ireland again
I'd wedge your ugly howling down your throat!
(From "An Duanaire: An Irish Anthology: 1600-1900: Poems of the Dispossessed " edited by Seán Ó Tuama and Thomas Kinsella, 1981)
Transl. by Thomas Kinsella

@темы: english-british, e'ireann, 20, 18, 17, r


Британский диктатор
Sir Walter Raleigh
A Vision upon the Fairy Queen
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept:
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen;
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen:
For they this queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief!

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


Британский диктатор
Christopher Marlowe
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

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Sir Walter Ralegh
The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

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@темы: m, english-british, 16, r, renaissance english

Pure Poetry