Роберт Бернс (Robert Burns)

* * *

SLEEP’ST thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature?
  Rosy thorn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which Nature
  Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy:
  Now thro’ the leafy woods,
  And by the reeking floods,
Wild Nature’s tenants freely, gladly stray;
  The lintwhite in his bower
  Chants o’er the breathing flower;
  The lav’rock to the sky
  Ascends wi’ sangs o’ joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus, gilding the brow o’ morning,
  Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning;
  Such to me my lovely maid.
  When absent frae my fair,
  The murky shades o’ care
With starless gloom o’ercaat my sullen sky:
  But when, in beauty’s light,
  She meets my ravish’d sight,
  When thro’ my very heart
  Her beaming glories dart-
‘Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

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