Английская поэзия


ГлавнаяБиографииСтихи по темамСлучайное стихотворениеПереводчикиСсылкиАнтологии
Рейтинг поэтовРейтинг стихотворений

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Элизабет Барретт Браунинг)


Minstrelsy


For ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature's pictured books;
For ever, since my childish tongue
Could name the themes our bards have sung;
So long, the sweetness of their singing
Hath been to me a rapture bringing!
Yet ask me not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

I know that much whereof I sing,
Is shapen but for vanishing;
I know that summer's flower and leaf
And shine and shade are very brief,
And that the heart they brighten, may,
Before them all, be sheathed in clay! --
I do not know the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

A few there are, whose smile and praise
My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:
But, of those few -- Death may impress
The lips of some with silentness;
While some may friendship's faith resign,
And heed no more a song of mine. --
Ask not, ask not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

The sweetest song that minstrels sing,
Will charm not Joy to tarrying;
The greenest bay that earth can grow,
Will shelter not in burning woe;
A thousand voices will not cheer,
When one is mute that aye is dear! --
Is there, alas! no reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

I do not know! The turf is green
Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen,
Yet asks not why that deeper hue
Doth all its tender leaves renew; --
And I, like-minded, am content,
While music to my soul is sent,
To question not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

Years pass -- my life with them shall pass:
And soon, the cricket in the grass
And summer bird, shall louder sing
Than she who owns a minstrel's string.
Oh then may some, the dear and few,
Recall her love, whose truth they knew;
When all forget to question why
She had delight in minstrelsy! 



Elizabeth Barrett Browning's other poems:
  1. Bianca among the Nightingales
  2. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 18. I never gave a lock of hair away
  3. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 27. My own Belovëd, who hast lifted me
  4. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 20. Belovëd, my Belovëd, when I think
  5. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 12. Indeed this very love which is my boast


Распечатать стихотворение. Poem to print Распечатать стихотворение (Poem to print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 762


Последние стихотворения

Поддержать сайт

To English version


Рейтинг@Mail.ru

Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru