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

class="v">Is ending wide-gleaming and strange

For the clearness of all things beneath the world’s roof,

I call back the wild chance and the change.

For once we twain sat through the hot afternoon

While the rain held aloof for a while,

Till she, the soft-clad, for the glory of June

Changed all with the change of her smile.

For her smile was of longing, no longer of glee,

And her fingers, entwined with mine own,

With caresses unquiet sought kindness of me

For the gift that I never had known.

Then down rushed the rain, and the voice of the thunder

Smote dumb all the sound of the street,

And I to myself was grown nought but a wonder,

As she leaned down my kisses to meet.

That she craved for my lips that had craved her so often,

And the hand that had trembled to touch,

That the tears filled her eyes I had hoped not to soften

In this world was a marvel too much.

It was dusk ’mid the thunder, dusk e’en as the night,

When first brake out our love like the storm,

But no night-hour was it, and back came the light

While our hands with each other were warm.

And her smile killed with kisses, came back as at first

As she rose up and led me along,

And out to the garden, where nought was athirst,

And the blackbird renewing his song.

Earth’s fragrance went with her, as in the wet grass,

Her feet little hidden were set;

She bent down her head, ’neath the roses to pass,

And her arm with the lily was wet.

In the garden we wandered while day waned apace

And the thunder was dying aloof;

Till the moon o’er the minster-wall lifted his face,

And grey gleamed out the lead of the roof.

Then we turned from the blossoms, and cold were they grown:

In the trees the wind westering moved;

Till over the threshold back fluttered her gown,

And in the dark house was I loved.

March

Slayer of winter, art thou here again?

O welcome, thou that bring’st the summer nigh!

The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,

Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.

Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry

Make April ready for the throstle’s song,

Thou first redresser of the winter’s wrong!

Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June,

Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,

Striving to swell the burden of the tune

That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,

Unmindful of the past or coming days;

Who sing, “O joy! a new year is begun!

What happiness to look upon the sun!”

O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss,

But Death himself, who, crying solemnly,

Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,

Bids us, “Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die.

Within a little time must ye go by.

Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live,

Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give”.

The March of the Workers

What is this, the sound and rumour? What is this that all men hear,

Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near,

Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear?

‘Tis the people marching on.

Whither go they, and whence come they? What are these of whom ye tell?

In what country are they dwelling ‘twixt the gates of heaven and hell?

Are they mine or thine for money? Will they serve a master well?

Still the rumour’s marching on.

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,

And the host comes marching on.

Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health and

mirth,

All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the earth.

Buy them, sell them for thy service! Try the bargain what ’tis worth,

For the days are marching on.

These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, win thy wheat,

Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into sweet,

All for thee this day-and ever. What reward for them is meet

Till the host comes marching on?

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,

And the host comes marching on.

Many a hundred years passed over have they laboured deaf and blind;

Never tidings reached their sorrow, never hope their toil might find.

Now at last they’ve heard and hear it, and the cry comes down the wind,

And their feet are marching on.

O ye rich men hear and tremble! for with words the sound is rife:

“Once for you and death we laboured; changed henceforward is the strife.

We are men, and we shall battle for the world of men and life;

And our host is marching on”.

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo