(Untitled)

[avrukinesku]

Поделитесь по-братски любимым англоязычным стихотвореньицем, т.е. не очень большим. Знаю кучку наизусь, но решил, что лучше знать, к примеру, сто. И это совсем другое качество жизни. Приступил к выбору. Возможно, ваш любимец пробьется и поступит в институт моего сознания. И будем мы одной крови, ты и я. Но только целиком, не ссылками

Comments

[raf_sh]

I am weary of the plum and of the cherry

[lord_k]

Today I have been happy. All the day
I held the memory of you, and wove
Its laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,
And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,
And sent you following the white waves of sea,
And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,
Stray buds from that old dust of misery,
Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.

So lightly I played with those dark memories,
Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,
Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,
For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,
And love has been betrayed, and murder done,
And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.

Rupert Brooke, October 1913

[aka_b_m]

О, в молодости меня на полчаса английской поэзии легко хватало. Сейчас, конечно, поэзия тсала уже не та. Но хоть что-то ещё помню:
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd-see here it is-
I hold it towards you.
(John Keats)

[aplaner]

Со школы помню

There is a well known portrait
upon the classroom wall
We see the face of Lenin
Who is dearly loved by all

[vinsenty]

Элегия Тичборна
Завораживающий размер.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is falne, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is runne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.