English Poetry. Frederick Locker-Lampson. The Cradle. Фредерик Локер-Лэмпсон.
Frederick Locker-Lampson (Фредерик Локер-Лэмпсон) The Cradle Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flow’d in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then […]
English Poetry. Frederick Locker-Lampson. The Cradle. Фредерик Локер-Лэмпсон.
Frederick Locker-Lampson (Фредерик Локер-Лэмпсон) The Cradle Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flow’d in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 34. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 34 Oh thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect, that delight’st to rest Upon the wild wood’s leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 34. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 34 Oh thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect, that delight’st to rest Upon the wild wood’s leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17 And now with all thy pencil’s truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth! Let his hair, in masses bright, Fall like floating rays of light; And there the raven’s die confuse With the golden sunbeam’s hues. Let no wreath, […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17 And now with all thy pencil’s truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth! Let his hair, in masses bright, Fall like floating rays of light; And there the raven’s die confuse With the golden sunbeam’s hues. Let no wreath, […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50 When wine I quaff, before my eyes Dreams of poetic glory rise; And freshened by the goblet’s dews, My soul invokes the heavenly Muse, When wine I drink, all sorrow’s o’er; I think of doubts and fears […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50 When wine I quaff, before my eyes Dreams of poetic glory rise; And freshened by the goblet’s dews, My soul invokes the heavenly Muse, When wine I drink, all sorrow’s o’er; I think of doubts and fears […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. Peter Pan. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) Peter Pan “The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan—the original of Peter Pan—has died in battle.” —New York Times. And Peter Pan is dead? not so! When mothers turn the lights down low And tuck their little sons in bed, […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. Peter Pan. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) Peter Pan “The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan—the original of Peter Pan—has died in battle.” —New York Times. And Peter Pan is dead? not so! When mothers turn the lights down low And tuck their little sons in bed, […]
English Poetry. Charlotte Mew. A Quoi Bon Dire. Шарлотта Мью.
Charlotte Mew (Шарлотта Мью) A Quoi Bon Dire Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I. So I, as I grow stiff and cold To this and that say Good-bye too; And everybody sees that I […]
English Poetry. Charlotte Mew. A Quoi Bon Dire. Шарлотта Мью.
Charlotte Mew (Шарлотта Мью) A Quoi Bon Dire Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I. So I, as I grow stiff and cold To this and that say Good-bye too; And everybody sees that I […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. The Young Mother. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) The Young Mother Of what concern are wars to her, Or treaties broken on the seas? Or all the cruelties of men? She has her baby on her knees. In blessed singleness of heart, What heed has she for nations’ wrath? She sings […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. The Young Mother. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) The Young Mother Of what concern are wars to her, Or treaties broken on the seas? Or all the cruelties of men? She has her baby on her knees. In blessed singleness of heart, What heed has she for nations’ wrath? She sings […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. Six Weeks Old. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) Six Weeks Old He is so small, he does not know The summer sun, the winter snow; The spring that ebbs and comes again, All this is far beyond his ken. A little world he feels and sees: His mother’s arms, his mother’s […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. Six Weeks Old. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) Six Weeks Old He is so small, he does not know The summer sun, the winter snow; The spring that ebbs and comes again, All this is far beyond his ken. A little world he feels and sees: His mother’s arms, his mother’s […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. A Charm. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) A Charm For Our New Fireplace, To Stop Its Smoking O wood, burn bright; O flame, be quick; O smoke, draw cleanly up the flue— My lady chose your every brick And sets her dearest hopes on you! Logs cannot burn, […]
English Poetry. Christopher Morley. A Charm. Кристофер Морли.
Christopher Morley (Кристофер Морли) A Charm For Our New Fireplace, To Stop Its Smoking O wood, burn bright; O flame, be quick; O smoke, draw cleanly up the flue— My lady chose your every brick And sets her dearest hopes on you! Logs cannot burn, […]
English Poetry. William Watson. A Child’s Hair. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) A Child’s Hair A letter from abroad. I tear Its sheathing open, unaware What treasure gleams within; and there— Like bird from cage— Flutters a curl of golden hair Out of the page. From such a frolic head ’twas shorn! (‘Tis but five […]
English Poetry. William Watson. A Child’s Hair. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) A Child’s Hair A letter from abroad. I tear Its sheathing open, unaware What treasure gleams within; and there— Like bird from cage— Flutters a curl of golden hair Out of the page. From such a frolic head ’twas shorn! (‘Tis but five […]
English Poetry. William Watson. Nay, Bid Me Not My Cares to Leave. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) * * * Nay, bid me not my cares to leave, Who cannot from their shadow flee. I do but win a short reprieve, ‘Scaping to pleasure and to thee. I may, at best, a moment’s grace, And grant of liberty, obtain; Respited […]
English Poetry. William Watson. Nay, Bid Me Not My Cares to Leave. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) * * * Nay, bid me not my cares to leave, Who cannot from their shadow flee. I do but win a short reprieve, ‘Scaping to pleasure and to thee. I may, at best, a moment’s grace, And grant of liberty, obtain; Respited […]
English Poetry. William Watson. The Flight of Youth. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) The Flight of Youth Youth! ere thou be flown away. Surely one last boon to-day Thou’lt bestow— One last light of rapture give, Rich and lordly fugitive! Ere thou go. What, thou canst not? What, all spent? All thy spells of ravishment Pow’rless […]
English Poetry. William Watson. The Flight of Youth. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) The Flight of Youth Youth! ere thou be flown away. Surely one last boon to-day Thou’lt bestow— One last light of rapture give, Rich and lordly fugitive! Ere thou go. What, thou canst not? What, all spent? All thy spells of ravishment Pow’rless […]
English Poetry. William Watson. In Laleham Churchyard. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) In Laleham Churchyard (AUGUST 18, 1890) ‘Twas at this season, year by year, The singer who lies songless here Was wont to woo a less austere, Less deep repose, Where Rotha to Winandermere Unresting flows,— Flows through a land where torrents call […]
English Poetry. William Watson. In Laleham Churchyard. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) In Laleham Churchyard (AUGUST 18, 1890) ‘Twas at this season, year by year, The singer who lies songless here Was wont to woo a less austere, Less deep repose, Where Rotha to Winandermere Unresting flows,— Flows through a land where torrents call […]
English Poetry. William Watson. Thy Voice from Inmost Dreamland Calls. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) * * * Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls; The wastes of sleep thou makest fair; Bright o’er the ridge of darkness falls The cataract of thy hair. The morn renews its golden birth: Thou with the vanquished night dost fade; And leav’st […]
English Poetry. William Watson. Thy Voice from Inmost Dreamland Calls. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) * * * Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls; The wastes of sleep thou makest fair; Bright o’er the ridge of darkness falls The cataract of thy hair. The morn renews its golden birth: Thou with the vanquished night dost fade; And leav’st […]
English Poetry. William Watson. The Mock Self. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) The Mock Self Few friends are mine, though many wights there be Who, meeting oft a phantasm that makes claim To be myself, and hath my face and name, And whose thin fraud I wink at privily, Account this light impostor very me. What […]
English Poetry. William Watson. The Mock Self. Уильям Уотсон.
William Watson (Уильям Уотсон) The Mock Self Few friends are mine, though many wights there be Who, meeting oft a phantasm that makes claim To be myself, and hath my face and name, And whose thin fraud I wink at privily, Account this light impostor very me. What […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 56. The Song of O’Ruark, Prince of Breffni. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 56. The Song of O’Ruark, Prince of Breffni THE valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o’er me, That sadden’d the joy of my mind. I look’d for the lamp which, […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 56. The Song of O’Ruark, Prince of Breffni. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 56. The Song of O’Ruark, Prince of Breffni THE valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o’er me, That sadden’d the joy of my mind. I look’d for the lamp which, […]
English Poetry. Isaac Rosenberg. Through These Pale Cold Days. Айзек Розенберг. Через эти пасмурные дни
Isaac Rosenberg (Айзек Розенберг) * * * Through these pale cold days What dark faces burn Out of three thousand years, And their wild eyes yearn, While underneath their brows Like waifs their spirits grope For the pools of Hebron again– For Lebanon’s summer slope. They […]
English Poetry. Isaac Rosenberg. Through These Pale Cold Days. Айзек Розенберг. Через эти пасмурные дни
Isaac Rosenberg (Айзек Розенберг) * * * Through these pale cold days What dark faces burn Out of three thousand years, And their wild eyes yearn, While underneath their brows Like waifs their spirits grope For the pools of Hebron again– For Lebanon’s summer slope. They […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 61. I’d Mourn the Hopes. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 61. I’d Mourn the Hopes I’D mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too; I’d weep when friends deceive me, If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I’ve thee before me, With heart so warm […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 76. In the Morning of Life. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 76. In the Morning of Life IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 93. Echo. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 93. Echo HOW sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o’er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light. Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 101. Quick! We Have But a Second. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 101. Quick! We Have But a Second QUICK! we have but a second, Fill round the cup while you may; For time, the churl, hath beckon’d, And we must away, away! Grasp the pleasure that’s flying, For oh, not Orpheus’ strain […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 114. I’ve a Secret to Tell Thee. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “Irish Melodies”. 114. I’ve a Secret to Tell Thee I’VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here — Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: I’ll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence […]
English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 20. Томас Мур.
Thomas Moore (Томас Мур) From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 20 One day the Muses twined the hands Of infant Love with flowery bands; And to celestial Beauty gave The captive infant for her slave. His mother comes, with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy; His […]