Стихи англоязычных поэтов с переводом на русский язык

Под этой рубрикой публикуются стихи англоязычных поэтов на английском языке с переводом на русский язык.
Чтобы ознакомиться с полным списком стихов, опубликованных в этой рубрике, посетите страницу ‘Стихи. Переводы с английского языка на русский.’

Francis Bret Harte «Her Letter»

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Her Letter I’M sitting alone by the fire Dressed just as I came from the dance, It’s a robe even you would admire,— It cost a cool thousand in France; I’m be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, the “belle of the season” Is wasting an hour on you. A dozen engagements I’ve broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. They say he’ll be rich,—when he grows up, And then he adores me indeed. And you, sir, are … Читать далее →

Robert Burns «A red red Rose»

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A red red Rose О my Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June; 0 my Luve’s like the melodie That’S’ sweetly play’d in tune.— As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will love thee still, my Dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.— Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: 1 will love thee still, my Dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.— And fare thee weel, my only Luve! And fare thee weel, a while! And I will … Читать далее →

Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. «The Voiceless»

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Стихотворение американского врача, поэта и писателя Оливера Уэнделла Холмса «Безгласные» на английском языке и в переводе Михаила Александровича Зенкевича на русский язык. The Voiceless We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o’er their silent sister’s breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them:— Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts’ sad story,— Weep for the voiceless, who have known … Читать далее →

Edna St. Vincent Millay “Time does not bring relief; you all have lied”

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* * * Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year’s bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. There are a hundred places where I fear To go,—so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “Afternoon in February”

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Afternoon in February The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o’er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) Февральский вечер День угасает, Ночь наступает, Скованы льдами … Читать далее →

Robert Frost «Wind and Window Flower»

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Стихотворение американского поэта Роберта Ли Фроста (1874 – 1963) «Ветер и цветок на окне» (Баллада о герани и буране) на английском и русском языках. Wind and Window Flower Lovers, forget your love, And list to the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze. When the frosty window veil Was melted down at noon, And the cagèd yellow bird Hung over her in tune, He marked her through the pane, He could not help but mark, And only passed her by, To come again at dark. He was a winter wind, Concerned with ice and snow, … Читать далее →

Philip Morin Freneau «The Indian Burying Ground»

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Стихотворение американского поэта и публициста Филипа Морена Френо «Индейское кладбище» на английском и русском языках. The Indian Burying Ground In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture, that we give the dead, Points out the soul’s eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands— The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast. His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that knows no rest. His bow, for action ready bent, … Читать далее →