Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах - Антология

turn’d

Most sharply round, and his face burn’d.

For Robert-both his eyes were dry,

He could not weep, but gloomily

He seem’d to watch the rain; yea, too,

His lips were firm; he tried once more

To touch her lips; she reach’d out, sore

And vain desire so tortured them,

The poor grey lips, and now the hem

Of his sleeve brush’d them.

With a start

Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;

From Robert’s throat he loosed the bands

Of silk and mail; with empty hands

Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw

The long bright blade without a flaw

Glide out from Godmar’s sheath, his hand

In Robert’s hair, she saw him bend

Back Robert’s head; she saw him send

The thin steel down; the blow told well,

Right backward the knight Robert fell,

And moaned as dogs do, being half dead,

Unwitting, as I deem: so then

Godmar turn’d grinning to his men,

Who ran, some five or six, and beat

His head to pieces at their feet.

Then Godmar turn’d again and said:

"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!

Take note, my lady, that your way

Lies backward to the Chatelet!"

She shook her head and gazed awhile

At her cold hands with a rueful smile,

As though this thing had made her mad.

This was the parting that they had

Beside the haystack in the floods.

For the Bed at Kelmscott

The wind’s on the wold

And the night is a-cold,

And Thames runs chill

’Twixt mead and hill.

But kind and dear

Is the old house here

And my heart is warm

’Midst winter’s harm.

Rest then and rest,

And think of the best

’Twixt summer and spring,

When all birds sing

In the town of the tree,

And ye in me

And scarce dare move,

Lest earth and its love

Should fade away

Ere the full of the day.

I am old and have seen

Many things that have been;

Both grief and peace

And wane and increase

No tale I tell

Of ill or well,

But this I say:

Night treadeth on day,

And for worst or best

Right good is rest.

Near Avalon

A ship with shields before the sun,

Six maidens round the mast,

A red-gold crown on every one,

A green gown on the last.

The fluttering green banners there

Are wrought with ladies’ heads most fair,

And a portraiture of Guenevere

The middle of each sail doth bear.

A ship with sails before the wind,

And round the helm six knights,

Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,

They pass by many sights.

The tatter’d scarlet banners there

Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.

Those six knights sorrowfully bear

In all their heaumes some yellow hair.

Echoes Of Love’s House

Love gives every gift whereby we long to live

“Love takes every gift, and nothing back doth give”.

Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb:

“Love locks up the lips whence all things good might come”.

Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see:

“Love makes blind the eyes to all but me and thee”.

Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain:

“Love turns life to woe till hope is nought and vain”.

Love, who changest all, change me nevermore!

“Love, who changest all, change my sorrow sore!”

Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest,

“Love burns up the world to a void of all unrest”.

And there we twain are left, and no more work we need:

“And I am left alone, and who my work shall heed?”

Ah! I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won!

“And is my praise nought worth for all my life undone?”

Love’s Gleaning Tide

Draw not away thy hands, my love,

With wind alone the branches move,

And though the leaves be scant above

The Autumn shall not shame us.

Say; Let the world wax cold and drear,

What is the worst of all the year

But life, and what can hurt us, dear,

Or death, and who shall blame us?

Ah, when the summer comes again

How shall we say, we sowed in vain?

The root was joy, the stem was pain

The ear a nameless blending.

The root is dead and gone, my love,

The stem’s a rod our truth to prove;

The ear is stored for nought to move

Till heaven and earth have ending.

Thunder In The Garden

When the boughs of the garden hang heavy with rain

And the blackbird reneweth his song,

And the thunder departing yet rolleth again,

I remember the ending of wrong.

When the day that was dusk while his death was aloof