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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)

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


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


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)


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


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


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

Pure Poetry