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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)

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


Elinor Wylie
Fire and Sleet and Candle-light

For this you’ve striven,
Daring, to fail:
Your sky is riven
Like a tearing veil.

For this, you’ve wasted
Wings of your youth;
Divined, and tasted
Bitter springs of truth.

From sand unslakèd
Twisted strong cords,
And wandered naked
Among trysted swords.

There’s a word unspoken,
A knot untied.
Whatever is broken
The earth may hide.

The road was jagged
Over sharp stones:
Your body’s too ragged
To cover your bones.

The wind scatters
Tears upon dust;
Your soul’s in tatters
Where the spears thrust.

Your race is ended—
See, it is run:
Nothing is mended
Under the sun.

Straight as an arrow
You fall to a sleep
Not too narrow
And not too deep.

(From “Still Colors” in Poetry, V. 18, No. 1, April 1921)

Название стихотворения взято из народной песни Lyke-Wake Dirge, в которой рассказывается о пути души от земли к Чистилищу (один из вариантов Fire and Fleet). Помимо прочего фраза является названием макабрического поэтического сборника (1961), в котором сама Элинор Уайли тоже публиковалась, но мне пока не удалось разобраться, что именно из ее произведений вошло в тот сборник.

Lyke-Wake Dirge Бриттен использовал для своей "Серенады для тенора, валторны и струнных.

Народная песня
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Dirge from Serenade op. 31 Sir Peter Pears, Barry Tuckwell, London Symphony Orchestra & Benjamin Britten
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Adrian Thompson - Tenor, Michael Thompson - Horn, Bournemouth Sinfonietta, David Lloyd-Jones
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Полная запись серенады
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@темы: youtube, w, music, middle centuries, links, english-british, english-american, english, b, 20


Thomas Hood
The Song of the Shirt

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
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@темы: h, english-british, 19


Hilda Doolittle (H.D.)
Sea Poppies

Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?


@темы: english-british, d, 20, imagism


Wilfred Owen
Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gurgling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

@темы: english-british, 21, o


Walter de la Mare
Fare Well

When I lie where shades of darkness
Shall no more assail mine eyes,
Nor the rain make lamentation
When the wind sighs;
How will fare the world whose wonder
Was the very proof of me?
Memory fades, must the remembered
Perishing be?

Oh, when this my dust surrenders
Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,
May these loved and loving faces
Please other men!
May the rusting harvest hedgerow
Still the Traveller's Joy entwine,
And as happy children gather
Posies once mine.

Look thy last on all things lovely,
Every hour. Let no night
Seal thy sense in deathly slumber
Till to delight
Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;
Since that all things thou wouldst praise
Beauty took from those who loved them
In other days.

@темы: english-british, 20, 19, m


John Keats
Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
No God, no Demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once.
Heart! Thou and I are here, sad and alone;
I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain!
O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease,
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds;
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,
But Death intenser -Death is Life's high meed.

Джон Китс
Чему смеялся я сейчас во сне?
Ни знаменьем небес, ни адской речью
Никто в тиши не отозвался мне...
Тогда спросил я сердце человечье:
Ты, бьющееся, мой вопрос услышь, -
Чему смеялся я? В ответ - ни звука.
Тьма, тьма крутом. И бесконечна мука.
Молчат и Бог и ад. И ты молчишь.
Чему смеялся я? Познал ли ночью
Своей короткой жизни благодать?
Но я давно готов ее отдать.
Пусть яркий флаг изорван будет в клочья.
Сильны любовь и слава смертных дней,
И красота сильна. Но смерть сильней.

Пер. С. Маршак

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


Walter de la Mare

There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.

@темы: english-british, 20, 19, m


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


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


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.


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.


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

Pure Poetry