Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist (piggymouse) wrote,
Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist

Фрост няша

Хоть я и не его сейчас в основном читаю.

Now Close the Windows

Now close the windows and hush all the fields;	
  If the trees must, let them silently toss;	
No bird is singing now, and if there is,	
  Be it my loss.	
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
  It will be long ere the earliest bird:	
So close the windows and not hear the wind,	
  But see all wind-stirred.

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,	
  Thinks these dark days of autumn rain	
Are beautiful as days can be;	
She loves the bare, the withered tree;	
  She walks the sodden pasture lane
Her pleasure will not let me stay.	
  She talks and I am fain to list:	
She’s glad the birds are gone away,	
She’s glad her simple worsted grey	
  Is silver now with clinging mist.	  
The desolate, deserted trees,	
  The faded earth, the heavy sky,	
The beauties she so truly sees,	
She thinks I have no eye for these,	
  And vexes me for reason why.	
Not yesterday I learned to know	
  The love of bare November days	
Before the coming of the snow;	
But it were vain to tell her so,	
  And they are better for her praise.

A Dream Pang

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song	
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;	
And to the forest edge you came one day	
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,	
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
You shook your pensive head as who should say,	
‘I dare not — too far in his footsteps stray —	
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.’
Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all	
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call	
And tell you that I saw does still abide.	
But ’tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,	
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;	
And give us not to think so far away	
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here	
All simply in the springing of the year.	
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;	
And make us happy in the happy bees,	
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.	
And make us happy in the darting bird	
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,	
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.	
For this is love and nothing else is love,	
The which it is reserved for God above	
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

Если кого-то всерь1з еб1т мо1 мнение, я сам не свой до строфы в "Ноябрьском госте". Те авторы, кого реально волнует именно музыкальное звучание стиха, просто обязаны за свою жизнь написать что-то пятистрочной строфой (напоминаю всем причастным про "The wounded surgeon plies the steel"). В "A Dream Pang" (переведите мне это название на русский) центр вольточки висит чуть-чуть слишком близко к середине сестета, а сам сестет кончается английским куплетом, но в остальном это крайне убедительный итальянский сонет. Ну и наконец позитивные мальчики и девочки не могут не залюбить "Весеннюю молитву", она мимими, хоть и без ярких технических моментов.

Tags: frost, poetry

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