Стихотворение Редьярда Киплинга (1865–1936) «За цыганской звездой» на английском языке и в переводе Григория Кружкова на русский язык. The Gipsy Trail The white moth to the closing bine, The bee to the opened clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you. Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away! The wild … Читать далее →

La Nuit Blanche1 A much-discerning Public hold The Singer generally sings And prints and sells his past for gold. Whatever I may here disclaim, The very clever folk I sing to Will most indubitably cling to Their pet delusion, just the same.   I had seen, as the dawn was breaking And I staggered to my rest, Tari Devi softly shaking From the Cart Road to the crest. I had seen the spurs of Jakko Heave and quiver, swell and sink. Was it Earthquake or tobacco, Day of Doom, or Night of Drink? In the full, fresh fragrant morning I … Читать далее →

Стихотворение Редьярда Киплинга (1865–1936) «Литания влюбленных» на английском языке и в пяти переводах на русский язык. The Lovers’ Litany Eyes of gray—the sodden quay, Driving rain and falling tears, As the steamer heads to sea In a parting storm of cheers. Sing, for Faith and Hope are high. None so true as you and I— Sing the Lovers’ Litany:— «Love like ours can never die!» Eyes of black—the throbbing keel Milky foam to left and right; Little whispers near the wheel In the brilliant tropic night. Cross that rules the Southern Sky, Stars that sweep, and wheel, and fly, Hear … Читать далее →

Шуточное стихотворение, предполагаемый монолог сестры поэта. Звукозапись стихотворения на английском языке:   Стихотворение Редьярда Киплинга «Моя соперница» на английском языке и в трёх переводах на русский язык My Rival I go to concert, party, ball — What profit is in these? I sit alone against the wall And strive to look at ease. The incense that is mine by right They burn before her shrine; And that’s because I’m seventeen And She is forty-nine. I cannot check my girlish blush, My color comes and goes; I redden to my finger-tips, And sometimes to my nose. But She is white where … Читать далее →