Письма римскому другу
Друзья, мне нужны строчки про если выпало в империи родиться лучше жить итд. по-английски -- желательно из перевода George L. Kline (какой-то левый перевод я нашел, но хочу нормальный). Он кончается так:
Dark green laurels on the verge of trembling.
Doors ajar. The windowpane is dusty.
Idle chairs and the abandoned sofa.
Linen blinded by the sun of noonday.
Pontus drones past a black fence of pine trees.
Someone’s boat braves gusts out by the promontory.
On the garden bench a book of Pliny rustles.
Thrushes chirp within the hairdo of the cypresses.
Dark green laurels on the verge of trembling.
Doors ajar. The windowpane is dusty.
Idle chairs and the abandoned sofa.
Linen blinded by the sun of noonday.
Pontus drones past a black fence of pine trees.
Someone’s boat braves gusts out by the promontory.
On the garden bench a book of Pliny rustles.
Thrushes chirp within the hairdo of the cypresses.