Thomas Moore (Òîìàñ Ìóð)

To Rosa

Like who trusts to summer skies. 
      And puts his little bark to sea.  
Is he who, lur’d by smiling eyes, 
      Consigns his simple heart to thee. 
 
For fickle is the summer wind,  
      And sadly may the bark be tost; 
For thou art sure to change thy mind,  
      And then the wretched heart is lost.

Ê Ðîçå

Ãëóïåö, êòî â ìîðå õîäèò ñìåëî, 
       Ïîâåðèâ ëåòíèì íåáåñàì. 
Ãëóïåö, êòî âåðèò áåç ïðåäåëà 
      Òâîèì ñìåþùèìñÿ ãëàçàì. 
 
Ïðèõîäèò øêâàë çà ëåòíèì áðèçîì, 
      Òîïÿ è ëîäêó, è ïëîâöà, 
À òû – íåìûñëèìûì êàïðèçîì 
      Êàçíèøü âëþáë¸ííûå ñåðäöà!

© Ïåðåâîä Åâã. Ôåëüäìàíà
Âñå ïåðåâîäû Åâãåíèÿ Ôåëüäìàíà

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: 1833

Ïîñëåäíèå ñòèõîòâîðåíèÿ

Ïîääåðæàòü ñàéò

To English version