George Meredith (Äæîðäæ Ìåðåäèò)

Dirge in Woods

A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so. 

Ëåñíàÿ ïàíèõèäà

Âåòåð ãí¸ò ñîñíû,
À íèæå
Íåò äûõàíèÿ áóðè;
Ìîõ çäåñü ñïîêîéíî ëèæåò
Êîðíåâèùà è òðàâû ðîñíû,
Ñâåòÿñü òóò è òàì ëàçóðüþ.
Êàê â ìîðñêîé ãëóáèíå
Òèõî ñîñíû óïàëè èç òüìû.
À âîí òàì, â âûøèíå
Æèçíü ñòðåìèòñÿ âïåð¸ä,
Ýòî òó÷è âåäóò õîðîâîä;
Ìû ãóëÿëè,
È ñëîâíî ñ äåðåâüåâ ïëîäû,
Äàæå ìû,
Âäðóã óïàëè. 

     Ïåðåâîä Àëåêñàíäðà Ëóêüÿíîâà

1. Modern Love. Sonnet 22. What May the Woman Labour to Confess?
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 33. In Paris, at the Louvre
3. Modern Love. Sonnet 19. No State is Enviable
4. Modern Love. Sonnet 37. Along the Garden Terrace
5. Modern Love. Sonnet 35. It is no Vulgar Nature

Ðàñïå÷àòàòü ñòèõîòâîðåíèå (Poem to print)

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