Thomas Moore (Òîìàñ Ìóð)

* * *

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest. 

* * *

 âå÷åðíèé ÷àñ ñëàáååò ñâåòî÷ äíÿ,
È íåæíûé ëó÷ ëàñêàåò ãëàäü ìîðñêóþ, —
Ñíû ëó÷øèõ äíåé áàþêàþò ìåíÿ,
È î òåáå ÿ ïëà÷ó è òîñêóþ.
È ÿ ñêîðáëþ, çà÷åì áû ÿ íå ìîã
Çà ñâåòîì äíÿ ïðîéòè çà ãðàíü çàêàòà,
Ãäå ñòàë ñðåäü âîëí ñèÿþùèé ÷åðòîã,
×åðòîã Çàáâåíèÿ, îòêóäà íåò âîçâðàòà.

Ïåðåâîä: À.À. Êóðñèíñêîãî

1. Silence Is In Our Festal Halls
2. While History's Muse
3. Though Humble The Banquet
4. The Song of Fionnuala
5. The Donkey and his Panniers

Ðàñïå÷àòàòü ñòèõîòâîðåíèå (Poem to print)

Êîëè÷åñòâî îáðàùåíèé ê ñòèõîòâîðåíèþ: 2561

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