English Poetry. John Keats. This Living Hand. Джон Китс.

John Keats (Джон Китс) This Living Hand 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 […]

English Poetry. Norman Rowland Gale. On the Spot. Норман Гейл.

Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл) On the Spot Nothing comes amiss, Kicker, Shooter, Yorker, How the Champion bangs Lob or cunning Corker! Let the watchers scold Johnny Briggs or Mold, Censure matters not– Grace is on the Spot! The Champion’s on the Spot again To stop the […]

English Poetry. Norman Rowland Gale. ‘Duck’. Норман Гейл.

Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл) ‘Duck’ When the Doctor pulls up as you pass in the street You know he will say:– ‘Well, Rogers, I hear that you suffered defeat– How many to-day? Not a hundred, I fear; but you always do well, And doubtless you stuck?’ It […]

English Poetry. Norman Rowland Gale. Sparkling. Норман Гейл.

Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл) Sparkling I’m not a good Cover I freely admit, And I’m not very handy at Point; I’m growing inert and no longer exert The nimble gymnastical joint: I cannot rejoice when a hurricane cut Contuses my shin with its crunch; When fielding to […]

English Poetry. Norman Rowland Gale. Buttered. Норман Гейл.

Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл) Buttered Buttered again, by Jingo, Buttered again! Likely to make your lingo Awfully plain! Isn’t it rough on the bowler, too, Doing his level to cram on screw? Easiest catches to three of the crew Buttered again! Stoddart dispenses stingo, Buttered again! […]

English Poetry. Norman Rowland Gale. Two Critics. Норман Гейл.

Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл) Two Critics When that I was a little lad I dearly loved Amelia James; She always seemed sunshiny glad, And took such notice of the games! Selina, who was Acton’s pet, Distinctly looked prepared to scratch; She never stood behind the net, […]

English Poetry. Robert Burns. Epigram. Immediate Extempore on being Told by W. L. of the Customs Dublin that Com Goldie did not Seem Disposed to Push the Bottle. Роберт Бернс. Эпиграмма по поводу замечания таможенного чиновника из Дублина мистера У— Л— о том, что интендант Га́уди, не склонен к тому, чтобы распить ещё одну бутылку

Robert Burns (Роберт Бернс) Epigram. Immediate Extempore on being Told by W. L. of the Customs Dublin that Com Goldie did not Seem Disposed to Push the Bottle Friend Commissar, since we’re met and are happy, Pray why should we part without having more nappy! Bring in t’other […]

English Poetry. Robert Burns. Epitaph for J— H— Written in Air. Роберт Бернс. Эпитафия долговязому парню, уроженцу Эйра

Robert Burns (Роберт Бернс) Epitaph for J— H— Written in Air Here lies a Scots mile of a chiel, If he’s in heaven, Lord, fill him weel! Перевод на русский язык Эпитафия долговязому парню, уроженцу Эйра «Шотландскою милей» когда-то, поверь, Дразнили мы плоть эту тленную, И […]

English Poetry. Alice Meynell. To the Beloved. Элис Мейнелл.

Alice Meynell (Элис Мейнелл) To the Beloved Oh, not more subtly silence strays Amongst the winds, between the voices, Mingling alike with pensive lays, And with the music that rejoices, Than thou art present in my days. My silence, life returns to thee In all the pauses […]

English Poetry. Alice Meynell. In Early Spring. Элис Мейнелл.

Alice Meynell (Элис Мейнелл) In Early Spring O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise In the young children’s eyes. But I have learnt the years, and know the yet Leaf-folded violet. Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell The cuckoo’s fitful bell. I wander in a […]

English Poetry. Henry Timrod. Serenade. Генри Тимрод.

Henry Timrod (Генри Тимрод) Serenade Hide, happy damask, from the stars, What sleep enfolds behind your veil, But open to the fairy cars On which the dreams of midnight sail; And let the zephyrs rise and fall About her in the curtained gloom, And then return to tell […]

English Poetry. Henry Timrod. The Problem. Генри Тимрод.

Henry Timrod (Генри Тимрод) The Problem Not to win thy favor, maiden, not to steal away thy heart, Have I ever sought thy presence, ever stooped to any art; Thou wast but a wildering problem, which I aimed to solve, and then Make it matter for my note-book, […]

English Poetry. Henry Timrod. The Cotton Boll. Генри Тимрод.

Henry Timrod (Генри Тимрод) The Cotton Boll While I recline At ease beneath This immemorial pine, Small sphere! (By dusky fingers brought this morning here And shown with boastful smiles), I turn thy cloven sheath, Through which the soft white fibres peer, That, with their gossamer bands, Unite, […]