Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Under the shadow of a hawthorn brake,

Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood,

Where, ’mid brown leaves, the primroses awake

And hidden violets smell of solitude;

Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing

Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring,

I should have said, “I love you”, and your eyes

Have said, “I, too…” The gods saw otherwise.

For this is winter, and the London streets

Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray

Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets

Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away.

And in the broken, trampled foreign wood

Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood,

And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star,

Under the shadow of the wings of war.

Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow

Lies along the lovers’ lane

Where last year we used to go —

Where we shall not go again.

In the hedge the buds are new,

By our wood the violets peer —

Just like last year’s violets, too,

But they have no scent this year.

Every bird has heart to sing

Of its nest, warmed by its breast;

We had heart to sing last spring,

But we never built our nest.

Presently red roses blown

Will make all the garden gay.

Not yet have the daisies grown

On your clay.