Цитаты из книги A Shropshire Lad

XLI In my own shire, if I was sad, Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade’s pain And bound for the same bourn as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year: Whether in the woodland brown I heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale; Or littering far the fields of May Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The seasons range the country roads, But here in London streets I ken No such helpmates, only men; And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another’s care. They have enough as ’tis: I see In many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they can Is to hate their fellow man; And till they drop they needs must still Look at you and wish you ill.

XV Look not in my eyes, for fear Thy mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me. One the long nights through must lie Spent in star-defeated sighs, But why should you as well as I Perish? gaze not in my eyes.

A Grecian lad, as I hear tell, One that many loved in vain, Looked into a forest well And never looked away again. There, when the turf in springtime flowers, With downward eye and gazes sad, Stands amid the glancing showers A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,-call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation- Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

*** Смирись, душа, смирись: плоть есть сосуд из глины, Но твёрд устой земли и вечен небосклон. Подумаем о том, как в простоте невинной, Душа, коснела ты, вкушая долгий сон.

Жестокости людей, их пота, слёз и крови Во мгле дородовой не мог я увидать. Я им не сострадал, не чуял к ним любови: Тогда, до бытия, я знал лишь благодать.

А ныне я, влача своих раздумий бремя, Под солнцем по земле брожу, и воздух пью. Смирись, смирись, душа; всё это лишь на время: Cрок претерпев, мы долг заплатим бытию.

Земля и небеса - всего первооснова. Но мысли сердце рвут: Я в мире, как в плену; В нём только страх и боль - и ничего иного. Зачем я пробуждён? Когда я вновь засну?

XXVIII. The Welsh Marches High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam Islanded in Severn stream; The bridges from the steepled crest Cross the water east and west.

The flag of morn in conqueror’s state Enters at the English gate: The vanquished eve, as night prevails, Bleeds upon the road to Wales.

Ages since the vanquished bled Round my mother’s marriage-bed; There the ravens feasted far About the open house of war:

When Severn down to Buildwas ran Coloured with the death of man, Couched upon her brother’s grave The Saxon got me on the slave.

The sound of fight is silent long That began the ancient wrong; Long the voice of tears is still That wept of old the endless ill.

In my heart it has not died, The war that sleeps on Severn side; They cease not fighting, east and west, On the marches of my breast.

Here the truceless armies yet Trample, rolled in blood and sweat, They kill and kill and never die; And I think that each is I.

None will part us, none undo The knot that makes one flesh of two, Sick with hatred, sick with pain, Strangling—When shall we be slain?

When shall I be dead and rid Of the wrong my father did? How long, how long, till spade and hearse Put to sleep my mother’s curse?