Лес за Гранью Мира (сборник) - Уильям Моррис (2015)

With the thought of the knowledge I knew over all.

Sang minstrels the story, and with the song's welling

Men looked on each other and glad were they grown,

But mine was the glory of the tale and its telling

How the loved and the lover were naught but mine own.

* * *

Leave we the cup!

For the moon is up,

And bright is the gleam

Of the rippling stream,

That runneth his road

To the old abode,

Where the walls are white

In the moon and the night;

The house of the neighbour that drave us away

When strife ended labour amidst of the hay,

And no road for our riding was left us but one

Where the hill's brow is hiding that earth's ways are done,

And the sound of the billows comes up at the last

Like the wind in the willows ere autumn is past.

But oft and again

Comes the ship from the main,

And we came once more

And no lading we bore

But the point and the edge,

And the ironed ledge,

And the bolt and the bow,

And the bane of the foe.

To the House 'neath the mountain we came in the morn,

Where welleth the fountain up over the corn,

And the stream is a-running fast on to the House

Of the neighbours uncunning who quake at the mouse,

As their slumber is broken; they know not for why;

Since yestreen was not token on earth or in sky.

Come, up, then up!

Leave board and cup,

And follow the gleam

Of the glittering stream

That leadeth the road

To the old abode,

High-walled and white

In the moon and the night;

Where low lies the neighbour that drave us away

Sleep-sunk from his labour amidst of the hay.

No road for our riding is left us save one,

Where the hills' brow is hiding the city undone,

And the wind in the willows is with us at last,

And the house of the billows is done and o'er-past.

Haste! mount and haste

Ere the short night waste,

For night and day,

Late turned away,

Draw nigh again

All kissing-fain;

And the morn and the moon

Shall be married full soon.

So ride we together with wealth-winning wand,

The steel o'er the leather, the ash in the hand.

Lo! white walls before us, and high are they built;

But the luck that outwore us now lies on their guilt;

Lo! the open gate biding the first of the sun,

And to peace are we riding when slaughter is done.