Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

A stranger, from the country’s calm retreat

And heavenly boon of sweet tranquillity,

I tread with faltering steps the dusty street,

And seek in vain the God I long to see.

These traffickers who hold the world in fee —

They hurry past with such determined feet!

I seem to read in every face I meet,

“Am I not strong? What is thy God to me?”

He was so sweet to all the fields, so great

Among the hills, so fair in every glen,

So good to countless hungering eyes that wait

Upon His hand; I felt the Presence then —

Too distant now to cheer me desolate

In this grim weary wilderness of men.

If I could paint you, friend, as you stand there,

Guard of the goal, defensive, open-eyed,

Watching the tortured bladder slide and glide

Under the twinkling feet; arms bare, head bare,

The breeze a-tremble through crow-tufts of hair;

Red-brown in face, and ruddier having spied

A wily foeman breaking from the side;

Aware of him, — of all else unaware:

If I could limn you, as you leap and fling

Your weight against his passage, like a wall;

Clutch him, and collar him, and rudely cling

For one brief moment till he falls — you fall:

My sketch would have what Art can never give —

Sinew and breath and body; it would live.

I know a lad with sun-illumined eyes,

Whose constant heaven is fleckless of a cloud;

He treads the earth with heavy steps and proud,

As if the gods had given him for a prize

Its beauty and its strength. What money buys

Is his; and his the reverence unavowed

Of toiling men for men who never bowed

Their backs to any burden anywise.

And if you talk of pain, of doubt, of ill,

He smiles and shakes his head, as who should say,

“The thing is black, or white, or what you will:

Let Folly rule, or Wisdom: any way

I am the dog for whom this merry day

Was made, and I enjoy it”. That is Bill.