Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies,

When love is done.

O wide wan waste of waters, where no breath

Ruffles the mirror surface, but the gray

Of clouds above is real as if the day

Were no less gloomy to a world beneath!

O dreary waste, the mind remembereth

Full many an hour of summer life and play,

Where now beneath is lifeless slime and clay,

And the vast level lies like ashen death.

Yet as at eve on the wild scene I pondered,

White thoughts of horror held my pulses hushed,

Sudden, amid the clouds beneath that rushed,

Shone out a star. Ah! would mine eyes have wandered,

Were there no waters, to that star above?

Were there no death, should we know all of love?