To Bring the Dead to Life To bring the dead to life Is no great magic. Few are wholly dead: Blow on a dead man’s embers And a live flame will start. Let his forgotten griefs be now, And now his withered hopes; Subdue your pen to his handwriting Until it prove as natural To sign his name as yours. Limp as he limped, Swear by the oaths he swore; If he wore black, affect the same; If he had gouty fingers, Be yours gouty too. Assemble tokens intimate of him — A ring, a hood, a desk: Around these … Читать далее →

Стихотворение британского поэта, романиста и литературного критика Роберта Грейвса (1895-1985) на английском и русском языках. The Presence Why say ‘death’? Death is neither harsh nor kind: Other pleasures or pains could hold the mind If she were dead. For dead is gone indeed, Lost beyond recovery and need, Discarded, ended, rotted underground — Of whom no personal feature could be found To stand out from the soft blur evenly spread On memory, if she were truly dead. But living still, barred from accustomed use Of body and dress and motion, with profuse Reproaches (since this anguish of her grew Do … Читать далее →

1915 I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, Red poppy floods of June, August, and yellowing Autumn, so To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, And you’ve been everything. Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, And Peace, and all that’s good. Robert Graves (1895-1985) 1915 Я видел смену всех земных времен В полях, где путь … Читать далее →