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William Empson «The Teasers»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

Стихотворение английского поэта Уильяма Эмпсона «Соблазны» на английском и русском языках. The Teasers Not but they die, the teasers and the dreams, Not but they die,                        and tell the careful flood To give them what they clamour for and why. You could not fancy where they rip to blood You could not fancy                        nor that mud I have heard speak that will not cake or dry. Our claims to act appear so small to these Our claims to act                        colder lunacies That cheat the love, the moment, the small fact. Make no escape because they flash and … Читать далее →

Robert Graves «Sick Love»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

Sick Love O Love, be fed with apples while you may, And feel the sun and go in royal array, A smiling innocent on the heavenly causeway, Though in what listening horror for the cry That soars in outer blackness dismally, The dumb blind beast, the paranoiac fury: Be warm, enjoy the season, lift your head, Exquisite in the pulse of tainted blood, That shivering glory not to be despised. Take your delight in momentariness, Walk between dark and dark—a shining space With the grave’s narrowness, though not its peace. Robert Graves (1895-1985) Любовь, дерзи и яблоко грызи Любовь, дерзи … Читать далее →

Edith Matilda Thomas «Babushka»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

Что знают иностранцы, но не знают русские про Русский новый год Для жителей Западной Европы и США одна из самых известных историй о Рождестве в России — это история Бабушки. Мало кто в США и Западной Европе знает о Снегурочке и Деде Морозе. Но многие убеждены, что вместо Деда Мороза к русским ребятишкам приходит некая Бабушка. Её так и зовут Бабушка с ударением на втором слоге. 🙂 Она известна тем, что приютила у себя в избе трёх Волхвов с Востока, которые через Россию (!) шли в Вифлеем поклониться младенцу Иисусу. Начало этому мифу положила Эдит Матильда Томас в 1907 г. … Читать далее →

«Christmas Eve» by Elsie Melchert Fowler

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

Christmas Eve On window panes, the icy frost Leaves feathered patters, crissed and crossed, But in our house the Christmas tree Is decorated festively. With tiny dots of colored light That cozy up this winter night. Christmas songs, familiar, slow, Play softly on the radio. Pops and hisses from the fire Whistle with the bells and choir. Tomorrow’s what I’m waiting for, But I can wait a little more. Elsie Melchert Fowler (1880-1966) Сочельник На оконных стеклах, ледяной мороз Оставляет перистые узоры, крест-накрест, Но в нашем доме елка Празднично наряжена. Маленькие цветные огни Делают уютной эту зимнюю ночь. Рождественские песни, … Читать далее →

Christina Rossetti «Echo»

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Echo Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years. Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more. Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again tho’ cold in … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “To William E. Channing”

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

To William E. Channing The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, «Servant of God! well done!» Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me, Like Luther’s, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, «Write!» Write! and tell out this … Читать далее →

Christina Rossetti «A Prodigal Son»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

A Prodigal Son DOES that lamp still burn in my Father’s house, Which he kindled the night I went away? I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day? Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reap; In a dream I count my Father’s kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep I watch his lambs that browse and leap. There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with … Читать далее →