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English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. Quando Ver Venit Meum?. Томас Макдона.






Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

Quando Ver Venit Meum?

--Poet, babbling delicate song
Vainly for the ears of love,
Vail not hope if thou wait long;
Charming thy hope to song
Thou wilt win love.

Thou dost yearn for lovelier flow'r
Than all blooms that all men cull:
Thou wilt find in its one hour,
In its one dell, the flow'r
That thou wilt cull.

Thou wilt know it in its own dell,
And pause there; and thy heart then
Leaving hope will sing love well,
Fill with heart's joy the dell
Of thy love then.

--Where is thy dell, when is thy time.
Lovely winsome tenderling?
Ah! if death fall ere that prime--
Now, bring me now in time
My tenderling!

Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

  1. To James Clarence Mangan
  2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
  3. A Woman
  4. Dublin Tramcars
  5. With Only This for Likeness, Only These Words




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English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. The Poet Saint. Томас Макдона.






Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

The Poet Saint

Sphere thee in Confidence
Singing God's Word,
Led by His Providence,
Girt with His Sword;

Bartering all for Faith,
Following e'er
That others deem a wraith,
Fleeting and fair.

'Walk thou no ample way
Wisdom doth mark;
Seek thou where Folly's day
Setteth to dark.

'Darkness in Clarity
Wisdom doth find,
Folly in Charity
Doubting the Kind,

'Folly in Piety,
Folly in Trust,
Heav'n in Satiety,
Death in Death's dust.

'Thou from the dust shalt rise
Over all Fame,
Angels of Paradise
Singing thy name.'

Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

  1. To James Clarence Mangan
  2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
  3. A Woman
  4. Dublin Tramcars
  5. With Only This for Likeness, Only These Words




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English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. Sundown. Томас Макдона.






Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

Sundown

Lilac and green of the sky,
Brown of the broken earth,
Apple trees whitening high,
May and the Summer's birth.

Voices of children and mirth
Singing of clouds that are ships,
Sure to sail into the firth
Where the sun's anchor now dips.

Here is our garden that sips
Sweets that the May bestows,
Breath of laburnum lips,
Breath of the lilac and rose.

Blossoms of blue will close
After the ships are gone,
Drinking the dew in a doze
Under the dark till the dawn.

Twilight and ships crowd on
Into the road of the West,
After the sun where he shone
Reddening down to rest.

Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

  1. To James Clarence Mangan
  2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
  3. A Woman
  4. Dublin Tramcars
  5. With Only This for Likeness, Only These Words

Poems of other poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):

  • Henry Longfellow (Генри Лонгфелло) Sundown («The summer sun is sinking low»)




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    English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. Postscriptum: September 1913. Томас Макдона.






    Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

    Postscriptum: September 1913

    I, Adam, saw this life begin
    And lived in Eden without sin,
    Until the fruit of knowledge I ate
    And lost my gracious primal state.
    
    I, Nero, fiddled while Rome burned:
    I saw my empire overturned,
    And proudly to my murderers cried--
    An artist dies in me! -- and died.
    
    And though sometimes in swoon of sense
    I now regain my innocence,
    I pay still for my knowledge, and still
    Remain the fool of good and ill.
    
    And though my tyrant days are o'er
    I earn my tyrant's fate the more
    If now secure within my walls
    I fiddle while my country falls.

    Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

    1. To James Clarence Mangan
    2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
    3. A Woman
    4. Dublin Tramcars
    5. Quando Ver Venit Meum?




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    English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. Of the Man of My First Play. Томас Макдона.






    Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

    Of the Man of My First Play

    As one who stands in awe when on his sight
    A fragment of antiquity doth burst
    And body huge above the plain which erst
    Knew its high fame and all its olden might,
    So in a dream of vanquished power and right
    I gazed on him, a fragment from the first,
    A ruin vast, half builded here and curst,--
    Perhaps full moulded in the eternal night.
    
    How may I show him? -- How his story plan
    Who was prefigured to the dreaming eye
    In term of other being? -- May he fill
    This mask of life? -- Or will my creature cry
    Shame that I dwarf the sequel and the man
    To house him thus within a fragment still?

    Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

    1. To James Clarence Mangan
    2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
    3. A Woman
    4. Dublin Tramcars
    5. Postscriptum: September 1913




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    English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. Of a Greek Poem. Томас Макдона.






    Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

    Of a Greek Poem

    Crave no more that antique rapture
    Now in alien song to reach:
    Here uncouth you cannot capture
    Gracious truth of Attic speech.
    
    Utterly the flowers perish,
    Grace of Athens, Rome's renown,
    Giving but a dream to cherish
    Tangled in a laurel crown.
    
    I that splendour far pursuing
    Left unlit the lamps of home,
    And upon my quest went ruing
    That I found not Greece or Rome.

    Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

    1. To James Clarence Mangan
    2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
    3. A Woman
    4. Dublin Tramcars
    5. Of the Man of My First Play




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    English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. Luna Dies Et Nox Et Noctis Signa Severa. Томас Макдона.






    Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

    Luna Dies Et Nox Et Noctis Signa Severa

    The mountain, rolled in purple, fold on fold,
    Delicate, dim, aware,
    After the sunset, when the twilight air
    Is hush, expectant :-- And below, between
    The road-way and the mountain, the thin screen,
    Frigid and straight, of trees of darkening green:
    
    Above the middle mountain, sudden, soon,
    Half burnished, ready risen, the round moon:
    Then burnished full : Splendour and the stars' light:
    Light and the night and the austere signs of the night.

    Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

    1. To James Clarence Mangan
    2. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
    3. A Woman
    4. Dublin Tramcars
    5. Of the Man of My First Play




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    English Poetry. Thomas MacDonagh. In Calm. Томас Макдона.






    Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

    In Calm

    Not a wind blows and I have cried for storm!
    The night is still and sullen and too bright,
    Still and not cold,-- the airs around me warm
    Rise, and I hate them, and I hate the night.
    
    Yet I shall hate the day more than the hush
    Henceforth forever, as life more than death;--
    And I have cried to hear the wild winds rush
    To drown my words, to drown my living breath. 

    Thomas MacDonagh’s other poems:

    1. Isn’t It Pleasant for the Little Birds
    2. To James Clarence Mangan
    3. A Woman
    4. Dublin Tramcars
    5. In the Storm




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    English Poetry. Wilfred Owen. Strange Meeting. Уилфред Оуэн. Странная встреча






    Wilfred Owen (Уилфред Оуэн)

    Strange Meeting

    It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
    Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
    Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
    Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
    Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
    Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
    With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
    Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
    And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;
    By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
    With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
    Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
    And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
    'Strange, friend,' I said, 'Here is no cause to mourn.'
    'None,' said the other, 'Save the undone years,
    The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
    Was my life also; I went hunting wild
    After the wildest beauty in the world,
    Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
    But mocks the steady running of the hour,
    And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
    For by my glee might many men have laughed,
    And of my weeping something has been left,
    Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
    The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
    Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
    Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
    They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
    None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
    Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
    Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
    To miss the march of this retreating world
    Into vain citadels that are not walled.
    Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
    I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
    Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
    I would have poured my spirit without stint
    But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
    Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
    I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
    I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
    Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
    I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
    Let us sleep now ... 

    Перевод на русский язык

    Странная встреча

    Мне снилось: поле боя я покинул
    И в каменное подземелье канул,
    Пробитое снарядами в граните.
    А там не то в бреду, не то в дремоте
    Бойцы лежали на земле вповалку.
    
    Один из них поднялся на колени,
    Простер ко мне истерзанные длани
    И, скорчив полумертвую ухмылку,
    Благословил как будто в никуда…
    И тут я понял, что стою в аду.
    Его лицо вдруг исказили боли,
    Хотя вокруг орудия не били,
    Кровь не хлестала, стоны не звучали…
    «Нет повода, – сказал я, – для печали».
    
    «Что? – возмутился он. – А безнадежность?
    А огрубевшая в окопах нежность?
    Какая жизнь была! Какую оду
    Слагал я красоте, разлитой всюду!
    Ее нет в косах темных, взорах томных,
    И эта круговерть мгновений дымных
    Ее не огорчит, как и природу.
    Но многие бы здесь, в земной юдоли,
    Мой смех и плач со мною разделили.
    Есть правды недосказанная малость:
    Осадок войн – очищенная милость.
    
    Найдутся те, кто любит пир крикливый,
    Но не выносит кипяток кровавый,
    Кто верует, что с быстротой тигриной
    Придет к прогрессу по дороге бранной.
    Я смелым был – и таинство сбывалось,
    Я мудрым стал – и мастерство явилось.
    И я бежал всемирного похода
    В твердыню, где отсутствует ограда.
    Густую кровь с походной колесницы
    Я там смывал водою из колодца,
    Где истина сокрыта ключевая.
    Я изливал любовь, весь мир врачуя:
    Ее не рана в сердце источала –
    Душа, душа моя кровоточила.
    Мой друг, я враг, тобой вчера убитый.
    О, как ты страшен в стычке был минутной,
    Меня штыком вколачивая в снег.
    Я ж так замерз, что выстрелить не смог.
    Уснем же вместе…»
    
    Перевод Евгения Лукина

    Wilfred Owen’s other poems:

    1. I Saw His Round Mouth’s Crimson
    2. A Palinode
    3. An Imperial Elegy
    4. Storm
    5. At a Calvary Near the Ancre




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    English Poetry. Henry Newbolt. The Guides at Cabul. Генри Ньюболт.






    Henry Newbolt (Генри Ньюболт)

    The Guides at Cabul

                        (1879)
    
    Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell,
      Who speak of your fathers' battles with lips that burn,
    The deed of an alien legion hear me tell,
      And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn,
      When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn,
    To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride,
    To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died.
    
    For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud,
      Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one,
    Answered a thousand yelling for English blood
      With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun,
      And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun,
    Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay,
    And dead or dying half of the seventy lay.
    
    Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold,
      Twice toiled in vain to drag it back,
    Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold,
      Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack,
      Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track.
    "Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout,
    And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt.
    
    And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again,
      And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke:
    "Come, for we know that the English all are slain,
      We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk;
      Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk."
    Silence fell for a moment, then was heard
    A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word.
    
    "Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong,
      That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight?
    We that live--do ye doubt that our hands are strong?
      They that are fallen--ye know that their blood was bright!
       Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light
    The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred,
    Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?"
    
    Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart
      To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap
    Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart
      The doors not all their valour could longer keep;
      They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep,
    And with never a foot lagging or head bent
    To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went.

    Henry Newbolt’s other poems:

    1. The Quarter-Gunner’s Yarn
    2. For a Trafalgar Cenotaph
    3. The Death of Admiral Blake
    4. The Non-Combatant
    5. Waggon Hill




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