Текст оригинала на английском языке
There is nobody on the road But I, And no beseeming abode I can try For shelter, so abroad I must lie. The stars feel not far up, And to be The lights by which I sup Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup Over me. They wag as though they were Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care, And annoy, And demons of despair – Life’s alloy. Sometimes outside the fence Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence, Till at last There is a silence, dense, Deep, and vast. A wanderer, witch-drawn To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn, On I go, And where I rest anon Do not know! Yet it’s meet – this bed of hay And roofless plight; For there’s a house of clay, My own, quite, To roof me soon, all day And all night.
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