[Lika_k]

Alfred Tennyson
Tithonus
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man—
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd
To his great heart none other than a God!
I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.'
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men, who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills,
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.'

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch—if I be he that watch'd—
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East:
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground;
Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

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

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[Lika_k]

Ли Бо
Струящейся воды
В струящейся воде
Осенняя луна.
На южном озере
Покой и тишина.
И лотос хочет мне
Сказать о чем-то грустном,
Чтоб грустью и моя
Душа была полна.

пер. Ал. Гитович

@темы: chinese, л, middle ages, 8, eastern

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[Lika_k]

Dereck Walcott
Volcano
Joyce was afraid of thunder
but lions roared at his funeral
from the Zurich zoo.
Was it Trieste or Zurich?
No matter. These are legends, as much
as the death of Joyce is a legend,
or the strong rumour that Conrad
is dead, and that Victory is ironic.
On the edge of the night-horizon
from this beach house on the cliffs
there are now, till dawn,
two glares from the miles-out-
at-sea derricks; they are like
the glow of the cigar
and the glow of the volcano
at Victory‘s end.
One could abandon writing
for the slow-burning signals
of the great, to be, instead,
their ideal reader, ruminative,
voracious, making the love of masterpieces
superior to attempting
to repeat or outdo them,
and be the greatest reader in the world.
At least it requires awe,
which has been lost to our time;
so many people have seen everything,
so many people can predict,
so many refuse to enter the silence
of victory, the indolence
that burns at the core,
so many are no more than
erect ash, like the cigar,
so many take thunder for granted.
How common is the lightning,
how lost the leviathans
we no longer look for!
There were giants in those days.
In those days they made good cigars.
I must read more carefully.

1976

@темы: 20, w, english-other, walcott, derek

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[Lika_k]

Анна Свирщинская
Когда солдат умирает
Возле его носилок
я стала на колени
куртку его целовала
говорила: ты такой красивый
можешь дать столько счастья
не знаешь сам сколько счастья
ты будешь жить мой красивый
мой храбрый.

Он улыбался и слушал
веки его слипались
он не знал что слова такие
говорят солдату
только когда он умирает.

Пер. Н. Астафьева

@темы: polish, 20, с (rus), swirszczynska, anna

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[Lika_k]

Dylan Thomas
Out Of The Sighs
Out of the sighs a little comes,
But not of grief, for I have knocked down that
Before the agony; the spirit grows,
Forgets, and cries;
A little comes, is tasted and found good;
All could not disappoint;
There must, be praised, some certainty,
If not of loving well, then not,
And that is true after perpetual defeat.

After such fighting as the weakest know,
There's more than dying;
Lose the great pains or stuff the wound,
He'll ache too long
Through no regret of leaving woman waiting
For her soldier stained with spilt words
That spill such acrid blood.

Were that enough, enough to ease the pain,
Feeling regret when this is wasted
That made me happy in the sun,
How much was happy while it lasted,
Were vagueness enough and the sweet lies plenty,
The hollow words could bear all suffering
And cure me of ills.

Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew,
The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin,
Groping for matter under the dog's plate,
Man should be cured of distemper.
For all there is to give I offer:
Crumbs, barn, and halter.

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

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[Lika_k]

Анна Свирщинская
Небо оплеванных
Они попадают туда после смерти,
но иногда,
на мгновение
они могут и здесь попасть
в это небо.

Небо, где они
будут счастливы,
что у них нет лица,
в которое каждый может плюнуть.
Что их уже нет –
так же точно,
как точно плевали им в лицо,
когда они были.

Пер. А. Базилевский

@темы: polish, 20, с (rus), swirszczynska, anna

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
Autumn at Taos
Over the rounded sides of the Rockies, the aspens of autumn,
The aspens of autumn,
Like yellow hair of a tigress brindled with pines.

Down on my hearth-rug of desert, sage of the mesa,
An ash-grey pelt
Of wolf all hairy and level, a wolf's wild pelt.

Trot-trot to the mottled foot-hills, cedar-mottled and pinion;
Did you ever see an otter?
Silvery-sided, fish-fanged, fierce-faced, whiskered, mottled.

When I trot my little pony through the aspen-trees of the canyon,
Behold me trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden
Great and glistening-feathered legs of the hawk of Horus;
The golden hawk of Horus
Astride above me.

But under the pines
I go slowly
As under the hairy belly of a great black bear.

Glad to emerge and look back
On the yellow, pointed aspen-trees laid one on another like feathers,
Feather over feather on the breast of the great and golden
Hawk as I say of Horus.

Pleased to be out in the sage and the pine fish-dotted foothills,
Past the otter's whiskers,
On to the fur of the wolf-pelt that strews the plain.

And then to look back to the rounded sides of the squatting Rockies.
Tigress brindled with aspen,
Jaguar-splashed, puma-yellow, leopard-livid slopes of America.

Make big eyes, little pony,
At all these skins of wild beasts;
They won't hurt you.

Fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes
Are nerveless just now.
So be easy.

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

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[Lika_k]

Арсений Тарковский
Пускай меня простит Винсент Ван-Гог
За то, что я помочь ему не мог,
За то, что я травы ему под ноги
Не постелил на выжженной дороге,
За то, что я не развязал шнурков
Его крестьянских пыльных башмаков,
За то, что в зной не дал ему напиться,
Не помешал в больнице застрелиться.
Стою себе, а надо мной навис
Закрученный, как пламя, кипарис,
Лимонный крон и темно-голубое,-
Без них не стал бы я самим собою;
Унизил бы я собственную речь,
Когда б чужую ношу сбросил с плеч.
А эта грубость ангела, с какою
Он свой мазок роднит с моей строкою,
Ведет и вас через его зрачок
Туда, где дышит звездами Ван-Гог.

@темы: art, т, 20, в, russian

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
Men In New Mexico
Mountains blanket-wrapped
Round a white hearth of desert--

While the sun goes round
And round and round the desert,
The mountains never get up and walk about.
They can't, they can't wake.

They camped and went to sleep
In the last twilight
Of Indian gods;
And they can't wake.

Indians dance and run and stamp--
No good.
White men make gold-mines and the mountains unmake them
In their sleep.

The Indians laugh in their sleep
From fear,
Like a man when he sleeps and his sleep is over, and he
can't wake up,
And he lies like a log and screams and his scream is silent
Because his body can't wake up;
So he laughs from fear, pure fear, in the grip of the sleep.

A dark membrane over the will, holding a man down
Even when the mind has flickered awake;
A membrane of sleep, like a black blanket.

We walk in our sleep, in this land,
Somnambulist wide-eyed afraid.

We scream for someone to wake us
And our scream is soundless in the paralysis of sleep,
And we know it.

The Penitentes lash themselves till they run with blood
In their efforts to come awake for one moment;
To tear the membrane of this sleep . . .
No good.

The Indians thought the white man would awake them . . .
And instead, the white men scramble asleep in the mountains,
And ride on horseback asleep forever through the desert,
And shoot one another, amazed and mad with somnambulism,
Thinking death will awaken something . . .
No good.

Born with a caul,
A black membrane over the face,
And unable to tear it,
Though the mind is awake.

Mountains blanket-wrapped
Round the ash-white hearth of the desert;
And though the sun leaps like a thing unleashed in the sky
They can't get up, they are under the blanket.

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

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[Lika_k]

Stevie Smith
The Coptic
Three angels came to the red red clay
Where in a heap it formless lay,

Stand up, stand up, thou lazy clay,
Stand up and be Man this happy day.

Oh in it bones the red clay groaned,
And why should I do such a thing? it said,
And take such a thing on my downy head?
Then the first angel stood forth and said,

Thou shalt have happiness, thou shalt have pain,
And each shall fall turn and about again,
And no man shall say when the day shall fall
That thou shalt be happy or not at all.

And the second angel said much the same
While the red clay lay flat in the falling rain,
Crying, I will stay clay and take no blame.

Then the third angel rose up and said,
Listen thou clay, raise thy downy head,
When thou hast heard what I have to say
Thou shalt rise Man and go man's way.

What have you to promise? the red clay moans,
What have you in store for my future bones?
I am Death, said the angel, and death is the end,
I am Man, cries clay rising, and you are my friend.

Стиви Смит
Коптская легенда
Явились три ангела в месте пустом,
Где красная глина лежала пластом.

— Восстань, о лентяйка! — сказали они. —
Довольно тебе прохлаждаться в тени;
Отныне ты стать человеком должна.

— А что мне за радость? — спросила она. —
Какая нужда — выбиваться из сил? —
Тут первый из ангелов ей возгласил:

— Узнаешь ты радость, узнаешь беду,
Узнаешь превратную их череду;
И каждое утро ты будешь гадать,
Беду или счастье тебе ожидать.

И вышел торжественно ангел второй
И вновь подтвердил этой глине сырой.
— О, нет! — был ответ. — Это все не по мне,
Уж лучше я здесь полежу в стороне.

Но третий, над нею крылами склонясь,
Воскликнул: — Внемли, неразумная грязь!
Ручаюсь, едва я закончу рассказ,
Ты стать человеком решишься тотчас.

И глиняный пласт проворчал: — Ну так что ж?
Какой ты приманкой меня увлечешь?
— Я Смерть, — молвил Ангел, — всем бедам финал.
— Согласен, — сказал человек и воспрял.

пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: s, 20, english-british, kruzhkov, grigory, к (rus), с (rus)

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
The Red Wolf
Over the heart of the west, the Taos desert
Circles an eagle,
And it's dark between me and him.

The sun, as he waits a moment, huge and liquid
Standing without feet on the rim of the far-off mesa
Says: Look for a last long time then! Look! Look well! I
am going.
So he pauses and is beholden, and straightway is gone.

And the Indian, in a white sheet
Wrapped to the eyes, the sheet bound close on his brows,
Stands saying: See, I'm invisible!
Behold how you can't behold me!
The invisible in its shroud!

Now that the sun has gone, and the aspen leaves
And the cotton-wood leaves are fallen, as good as fallen,
And the ponies are in corral,
And it's night.

Why, more has gone than all these;
And something has come.
A red wolf stands on the shadow's dark red rim.

Day has gone to dust on the sage-grey desert
Like a white Christus fallen to dust from a cross;
To dust, to ash, on the twilit floor of the desert.

And a black crucifix like a dead tree spreading wings;
Maybe a black eagle with its wings out
Left lonely in the night
In a sort of worship.

And coming down upon us, out of the dark concave
Of the eagle's wings,
And the coffin-like slit where the Indians' eyes are,
And the absence of cotton-wood leaves, or of aspen,
Even the absence of dark-crossed donkeys:
Come tall old demons, smiling
The Indian smile,
Saying: How do you do, you pale-face?

I am very well, old demon.
How are you?

Call me Harry if you will,
Call me Old Harry says he.
Or the abbreviation of Nicolas,
Nick. Old Nick, maybe.

Well, you're a dark old demon,
And I'm a pale-face like a homeless dog
That has followed the sun from the dawn through the east
Trotting east and east and east till the sun himself went home,
And left me homeless here in the dark at your door.
How do you think we'll get on,
Old demon, you and I?

You and I, you pale-face,
Pale-face you and I
Don't get on.

Mightn't we try?

Where's your God, you white one?
Where's your white God?

He fell to dust as the twilight fell,
Was fume as I trod
The last step out of the east.

Then you're a lost white dog of a pale-face,
And the day's now dead. . . .

Touch me carefully, old father,
My beard is red.

Thin red wolf of a pale-face,
Thin red wolf, go home.

I have no home, old father,
That's why I come.

We take no hungry stray from the pale-face . . .

Father, you are not asked.
I am come. I am here. The red-dawn-wolf
Sniffs round your place.
Lifts up his voice and howls to the walls of the pueblo,
Announcing he's here.

The dogs of the dark pueblo
Have long fangs. . .

Has the red wolf trotted east and east and east
From the far, far other end of the day
To fear a few fangs?

Across the pueblo river
That dark old demon and I
Thus say a few words to each other

And wolf, he calls me, and red.
I call him no names.
He says, however, he is Star-Road.
I say, he can go back the same gait.

As for me . . .
Since I trotted at the tail of the sun as far as ever the
creature went west,
And lost him here,
I'm going to sit down on my tail right here
And wait for him to come back with a new story.
I'm the red wolf, says the dark old father.
All right, the red dawn wolf I am.

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

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[Lika_k]

Wallace Stevens
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

Уоллес Стивенс
Спокойно было в доме, тихо в мире.
Читатель обратился в книгу. Ночь

Была одушевленной жизнью книги.
Спокойно было в доме, тихо в мире.

Слова звучали словно не из книги,
А из самой ожившей тишины,

Пока читатель вслушивался в них,
С усердьем наклоняясь над страницей.

Ночь летняя была оправой правды.
Дом замер, чтобы мысли не нарушить.

Стоявшая над домом тишина,
Как страж, хранила цельность этой мысли.

И правды не было другой — лишь эта
Мир обнимающая тишина,

Ночь летняя, и книга, и читатель,
Склоняющийся за полночь над книгой.

пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: s, 20, english-american, stevens, wallace, kruzhkov, grigory, к (rus), с (rus)

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
Mountain Lion
Climbing through the January snow, into the Lobo Canyon
Dark grow the spruce-trees, blue is the balsam, water sounds still unfrozen, and the trail is still evident

Men!
Two men!
Men! The only animal in the world to fear!

They hesitate.
We hesitate.
They have a gun.
We have no gun.

Then we all advance, to meet.

Two Mexicans, strangers, emerging our of the dark and
snow and inwardness of the Lobo valley.
What are they doing here on this vanishing trail?

What is he carrying?
Something yellow.
A deer?

Que' tiene amigo?
Leon-

He smiles foolishly as if he were caught doing wrong.
And we smile, foolishly, as if we didn't know.
He is quite gentle and dark-faced.

It is a mountain lion,
A long, long, slim cat, yellow like a lioness.
Dead.

He trapped her this morning, he says, smiling foolishly.

Life up her face,
Her round, bright face, bright as frost.
Her round, fine-fashioned head, with two dead ears;
And stripes in the brilliant frost of her face, sharp, fine dark rays,
Dark, keen, fine rays in the brilliant frost of her face.
Beautiful dead eyes.

Hermoso es!

They go out towards the open;
We go out into the gloom of Lobo.
And above the trees I found her lair,
A hole in the blood-orange brilliant rocks that stick up, a little cave.
And bones, and twigs, and a perilous ascent.

So, she will never leap up that way again, with the yellow flash of a mountain lion's long shoot!
And her bright striped frost-face will never watch any more, out of the shadow of the cave in the blood- orange rock,
Above the trees of the Lobo dark valley-mouth!

Instead, I look out.
And out to the dim of the desert, like a dream, never real;
To the snow of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the ice of the mountains of Picoris,
And near across at the opposite steep of snow, green trees motionless standing in snow, like a Christmas toy.

And I think in this empty world there was room for me and a mountain lion.
And I think in the world beyond, how easily we might spare a million or two humans
And never miss them.
Yet what a gap in the world, the missing white frost-face of that slim yellow mountain lion!

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

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[Lika_k]

Иннокентий Анненский
Тринадцать строк
Я хотел бы любить облака
На заре… Но мне горек их дым:
Так неволя тогда мне тяжка,
Так я помню, что был молодым.

Я любить бы их вечер хотел,
Когда, рдея, там гаснут лучи,
Но от жертвы их розовых тел
Только пепел мне снится в ночи.

Я люблю только ночь и цветы
В хрустале, где дробятся огни,
Потому что утехой мечты
В хрустале умирают они…
Потому что — цветы это ты.

@темы: 20, а (rus), russian

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
23. Bluebeard
Sonnet VI
THIS door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed…. Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see…. Look yet again—
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours. I seek another place.

@темы: sonnet, m, 20, millay, edna st. vincent, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Николай Агнивцев (1888-1932)
О драконе, который глотал прекрасных дам
Как-то раз путём окрестным
Пролетел Дракон... И там
По причинам неизвестным
Стал глотать прекрасных дам.

Был ужасный он обжора
И, глотая, что есть сил,
Безо всякого разбора
В результате проглотил:

Синьорину Фиамету,
Монну Юлию Падету,
Аббатису Агрипину,
Синьорину Фарнарину,
Монну Лючию ди Рона,
Пять сестёр из Авиньона
И шестьсот семнадцать дам,
Неизвестных вовсе нам.

Но однажды граф Тедеско,
Забежав Дракону в тыл,
Вынул меч и очень резко
С тем Драконом поступил.

Разрубив его на части,
Граф присел... И в тот же миг
Из драконьей вышли пасти
И к нему на шею прыг:

Синьорина Фнамета,
Монна Юлия Падета,
Аббатиса Агрипина,
Синьорина Фарнарина,
Монна Лючия ди Рона,
Пять сестёр из Авиньона,
И шестьсот семнадцать дам
Неизвестных вовсе нам.

Бедный тот Дракон, в несчастьи
Оказавшись не у дел,
Подобрав свои все части,
Плюнул вниз и улетел.

И, увы, с тех пор до гроба
Храбрый граф, пустившись в путь,
Всё искал Дракона, чтобы
С извинением вернуть:

Синьорину Фиамету,
Монну Юлию Падету,
Аббатису Агрипину,
Синьорину Фарнарину,
Монну Лючию ди Рона,
Пять сестёр из Авиньона
И шестьсот семнадцать дам,
Неизвестных вовсе нам.

@темы: 20, а (rus), russian

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
21. “Not in this chamber only at my birth”
Sonnet IV
Not in this chamber only at my birth—
When the long hours of that mysterious night
Were over, and the morning was in sight—
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;
And never shall one room contain me quite
Who in so many rooms first saw the light,
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.

So is no warmth for me at any fire
To-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;
I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,
At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,
And straighten back in weariness, and long
To gather up my little gods and go.

@темы: sonnet, m, 20, millay, edna st. vincent, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Циприан Камиль Норвид
Траурная рапсодия памяти Бема
I
Тень, зачем уезжаешь, руки скрестив на латах?
Факел возле колена вспыхивает и дымится.
Меч отражает лавры и плач свечей тускловатых,
Сокол рвется, и конь твой пляшет, как танцовщица.
Веют легкие стяги, переплетаясь в тучах,
Как подвижные палатки в лагере войск летучих.
Воют длинные трубы, захлебываясь; знамена
Клонятся, словно птицы с опущенными крылами,
Словно сбитые пикой ящеры и драконы,
Пикой, которую ты когда-то прославил делами

II
Плакальщицы идут. Одни простирают руки
И поднимают снопы, разодранные ветрами.
Иные — слезы в ладони, как в раковины собирают,
Иные — ищут дорогу, проложенную веками.
Иные — бросают наземь глиняные кувшины,
Усугубляя печаль звоном разбитой глины.

III
Хлопы бьют в топоры, синие, словно небо,
Служки колотят в щиты, рыжие, словно пламя,
В тучи упершись древком и трепеща от гнева,
В клубах черного дыма реет огромное знамя.

VI
Входят, тонут в ущелье... снова выходят на свет,
Снова чернеют в небе — хладный свет их коснулся,—
Снова черные пики месяц на небе застят.
Смолкнул хорал и снова, словно волна, всплеснулся.

V
Дальше-дальше — покуда перед тобой, как бездна,
Не предстанет могила, смертный рубеж, который
Не перейти живому. Тогда мы пикой железной
Сбросим в пропасть коня, словно старинной шпорой.

VI
И поплетемся вдаль с песнею похоронной,
Урнами в двери стуча, посвистывая, как непогода,
Так что рассыпятся в прах стены Иерихона,
И спадет пелена с глаз и сердец народа.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Дальше-дальше...

Пер. Д. Самойлов

Чеслав Немен - "Жалобная рапсодия памяти Бема"

@темы: polish, music, n, н, 20, youtube, 19

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
20. “Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring”
Sonnet III
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.

You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird’s wings too high in air to view,—
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,—and the long year remembers you.

@темы: sonnet, m, 20, millay, edna st. vincent, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Ли Бо
Прочитал я
Парчовые знаки твои,
И казалось,
Что иероглифы рыдают.
Сотни рек, сотни гор
Преградили пути,
Но желанья и мысли
У нас совпадают.

пер. Александр Гитович

@темы: chinese, л, 8, eastern