Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

From falsehood and error,

From darkness and terror,

From all that is evil,

From the power of the devil,

From the fire and the doom,

From the judgement to come —

Sweet Jesu, deliver

Thy servants for ever.

The world is young today:

Forget the gods are old,

Forget the years of gold

When all the months were May.

A little flower of Love

Is ours, without a root,

Without the end of fruit,

Yet-take the scent thereof.

There may be hope above,

There may be rest beneath;

We see them not, but Death

Is palpable — and Love.

I asked for Peace —

My sins arose,

And bound me close,

I could not find release.

I asked for Truth —

My doubts came in,

And with their din

They wearied all my youth.

I asked for Love —

My lovers failed,

And griefs assailed

Around, beneath, above.

I asked for Thee —

And Thou didst come

To take me home

Within thy heart to be.

Beyond the calumny and wrong,

Beyond the clamour and the throng,

Beyond the praise and triumph-song,

He passed.

Beyond the scandal and the doubt,

The fear within, the fight without,

The turmoil and the battle-shout,

He sleeps.

The world for him was not so sweet

That he should grieve to stay his feet

Where youth’s and manhood’s highways meet

And die.

For every child a mother’s breast,

For every bird a guarded nest,

For him alone was found no rest

But this.

Beneath the flight of happy hours,

Beneath the withering of the flowers,

In folds of peace more sure than our’s

He lies.

A night no glaring dawn shall break,

A sleep no cruel voice shall wake,

An heritage that none can take

Are his.