Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Come, heavy Sleep the image of true Death;

And close up these my weary weeping eyes:

Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath,

And tears my heart with Sorrow’s sigh-swoll’n cries:

Come and possess my tired thought-worn soul,

That living dies, till thou on me be stole.

Come shadow of my end, and shape of rest,

Allied to Death, child to his black-fac’d Night:

Come thou and charm these rebels in my breast,

Whose waking fancies do my mind affright.

O come sweet Sleep; come or I die for ever:

Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never.

Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!

Exiled for ever, let me mourn;

Where night’s black bird her sad infamy sings,

There let me live forlorn.

Down vain lights, shine you no more!

No nights are dark enough for those

That in despair their last fortunes deplore.

Light doth but shame disclose.

Never may my woes be relieved,

Since pity is fled;

And tears and sighs and groans my weary days, my weary days

Of all joys have deprived.

From the highest spire of contentment

My fortune is thrown;

And fear and grief and pain for my deserts, for my deserts

Are my hopes, since hope is gone.

Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,

Learn to contemn light

Happy, happy they that in hell

Feel not the world’s despite.