Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения - Теннисон Альфред (2007)

I

THE POET’S SONG

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He pass’d by the town and out of the street,

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

And waves of shadow went over the wheat,

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet,

That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,

And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the prey,

And the nightingale thought, ‘I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be

When the years have died away.’

ПЕСНЯ ПОЭТА

Ливень схлынул, и вышел Поэт за порог,

Миновал дома, городской предел,

Ветерок подул от закатных туч,

Над волнами ржи, как дрожь, пролетел.

А Поэт нашел одинокий холм

И так звонко, так сладко песню запел —

Дикий лебедь заслушался в небесах,

Наземь жаворонок слетел.

Стриж забыл на лету догонять пчелу,

Змейка юркнула в свой приют,

Ястреб с пухом жертвы в клюве застыл,

Он скорей растерян, чем лют;

Соловей подумал: «Мне так не спеть,

На земле так, увы, не поют —

Он поет о том, каким будет мир,

Когда годы и время пройдут».

Г. Кружков

MARIANA

‘Mariana in the moated grange’ —

Measure for Measure

With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all:

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the pear to the gable-wall.

The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:

Unlifted was the clinking latch;

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;

She could not look on the sweet heaven.

Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by,

And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, ‘The night is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:

The cock sung out an hour ere light:

From the dark fen the oxen’s low

Came to her: without hope of change,

In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn

About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ‘The day is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,

And o’er it many, round and small,

The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver-green with gnarled bark:

For leagues no other tree did mark

The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away,

In the white curtain, to and fro,