English

Edna St. Vincent Millay «If Still Your Orchards Bear»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

If Still Your Orchards Bear Brother, that breathe the August air Ten thousand years from now, And smell—if still your orchards bear Tart apples on the bough— The early windfall under the tree, And see the red fruit shine, I cannot think your thoughts will be Much different from mine. Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadow of the trees, — Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still … Читать далее →

John Greenleaf Whittier «My Playmate»

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My Playmate THE PINES were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father’s … Читать далее →

Фёдор Тютчев «Видение» на английском языке

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Видение Есть некий час, в ночи, всемирного молчанья, И в оный час явлений и чудес Живая колесница мирозданья Открыто катится в святилище небес. Тогда густеет ночь, как хаос на водах; Беспамятство, как Атлас, давит сушу; Лишь Музы девственную душу В пророческих тревожат боги снах! 1829 г. Фёдор Тютчев (1803–1873) A Vision There is an hour at night full of an awesome wonder, When universal silence o’er the whole world lies And when the cosmic chariot rolls, wakening no thunder, Into the sanctuary of the skies. The dark of chaos comes, land, sky and water merging; Sleep Atlas-like treads earth, its … Читать далее →

Christina Rossetti «After Death»

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After Death The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, ‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not … Читать далее →

Hilaire Belloc «The world’s a stage…»

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* * * The world’s a stage. The trifling entrance fee Is paid (by proxy) to the registrar. The Orchestra is very loud and free But plays no music in particular. They do not print a programme, that I know. The cast is large. There isn’t any plot. The acting of the piece is far below The very worst of modernistic rot. The only part about it I enjoy Is what was called in English the Foyay. There will I stand apart awhile and toy With thought, and set my cigarette alight; And then — without returning to the play … Читать далее →

Михаил Лермонтов «Узник» на английском языке

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Узник Отворите мне темницу, Дайте мне сиянье дня, Черноглазую девицу, Черногривого коня. Я красавицу младую Прежде сладко поцелую, На коня потом вскочу, В степь, как ветер, улечу. Но окно тюрьмы высоко, Дверь тяжелая с замком; Черноокая далеко, В пышном тереме своем; Добрый конь в зеленом поле Без узды один, по воле Скачет, весел и игрив, Хвост по ветру распустив… Одинок я — нет отрады: Стены голые кругом, Тускло светит луч лампады Умирающим огнем; Только слышно: за дверями Звучно-мерными шагами Ходит в тишине ночной Безответный часовой. 1837 г. Михаил Лермонтов (1814-1841) The Captive Break my chains and ope my dungeon, Let … Читать далее →

Robert Bridges „Nightingales“

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Nightingales Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark … Читать далее →