Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Villon, in French none may forget,

“What has become of last year’s snow?”

You asked — nor is there answer yet;

And where did those dead ladies go

With bosoms worn exceeding low.

With hair of gold, and lips of red?

It drifted — would you really know —

Flake after flake upon my head.

Ah! suns may rise and suns may set,

Catullus told us long ago.

But, howsoe’er we fume and fret.

The wind takes all our mortal show.

And youth hath scarcely time to blow

In Life’s brief garden, ere ‘tis fled —

Yet why so early settle so

Flake after flake upon my head?

But yesterday my locks were jet.

Rival of raven and of crow.

Yet, while I dined with Juliet,

And passed the wine-cup to and fro.

For all the glory and the glow.

The gray was creeping thread by thread.

Falling, a soft insidious foe.

Flake after flake upon my head.

Ah! Prince, the sorry overthrow!

A man might just as well be dead,

When once the years begin to sow

Flake after flake upon his head.

Upon the summer afternoon,

Wafted across the orchard trees,

There comes a ghostly travelling tune,

Blent with the sleepy drone of bees;

Elfin, aёrial it is.

Like shaken bells of silver rain.

And creepy as old melodies—

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

The ancient hat, the wornout shoon,

The broken-hearted fineries.

The yellowed news, dead as the moon.

The rust, the rubbish, and the lees.

The tarnished trophy, gallantries

Gone to the moth — this clouded cane!

This buckle brave! — for such as these

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

O thou that wooest deep in June,

Hearken! and thou so fain to seize

Joy, and to hoard it, late and soon.

Thou lord of many locks and keys.

Thick lies the dust — though no man sees —

Upon thy dream; Time sees it plain

On the bright wings, long ere it flies:

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

Prince, ’tis a thought our veins to freeze:

Time doth all hallowed things profane,

And toss about the centuries —

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

God of the Wine List, roseate lord,

And is it really then good-by?

Of Prohibitionists abhorred.

Must thou in sorry sooth then die,

(O fatal morning of July!)

Nor aught hold back the threatened hour

That shrinks thy purple clusters dry?

Say not good-by — but au revoir!

For the last time the wine is poured,

For the last toast the glass raised high.

And henceforth round the wintry board,

As dumb as fish, we’ll sit and sigh,

And eat our Puritanic pie,

And dream of suppers gone before.

With flying wit and words that fly—

Say not good-by — but an revoir!

Twas on thy wings the poet soared,

And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by,

And, when we said "Here’s looking toward".

It seemed a better world, say I,

With greener grass and bluer sky.

The writ is on the Tavern Door,

And who would tipple on the sly?.

’Tis not good-by — but au revoir!

Gay God of Bottles, I deny

Those brave tempestuous times are o’er;

Somehow I think, I scarce know why,

’Tis not good-by— but au revoir!

Loud mockers in the roaring street

Say Christ is crucified again:

Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet,

Twice broken His great heart in vain.

I hear, and to myself I smile,

For Christ talks with me all the while.

No angel now to roll the stone

From off His unawaking sleep,

In vain shall Mary watch alone,

In vain the soldiers vigil keep.

Yet while they deem my Lord is dead

My eyes are on His shining head.

Ah! never more shall Mary hear

That voice exceeding sweet and low

Within the garden calling clear:

Her Lord is gone, and she must go.

Yet all the while my Lord I meet

In every London lane and street.

Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain,

And Bartimæus still go blind;

The healing hem shall ne’er again

Be touch’d by suffering humankind.

Yet all the while I see them rest,

The poor and outcast, on His breast.

No more unto the stubborn heart

With gentle knocking shall He plead,

No more the mystic pity start,

For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.

So in the street I hear men say:

Yet Christ is with me all the day.