Сад любви. Из английской романтической поэзии - [37]

Our sincerest laughter (наш искреннейший смех; sincere [sɪn'sɪə] – искренний, чистосердечный)

With some pain is fraught (некоторой болью преисполнен; fraught [frɔ:t] – нагруженный; полный, наполненный; преисполненный);

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought (наши сладчайшие песни – те, которые рассказывают о печальнейших мыслях: «о печальнейшей мысли»).

Yet, if we could scorn (и все же, если бы мы могли презирать; to scorn – презирать; относиться с презрением, пренебрежением)

Hate and pride and fear (ненависть, и гордость, и страх),

If we were things born (если бы мы были существами: «вещами», рожденными)

Not to shed a tear (не проливать слез; to shed – проливать, лить /слезы, кровь/),

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near (я не знаю, как бы мы когда-либо приблизились: «подошли близко» к твоей радости).

Better than all measures (лучше, чем все размеры; measure ['meʒə] – мера, размер; /муз./ такт; размер; мелодия, музыкальная тема)

Of delightful sound (очаровательного звука),

Better than all treasures (лучше, чем все сокровища; treasure ['treʒə] – сокровище; клад)

That in books are found (что находят: «что есть найдены» в книгах),

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground (твое искусство было бы поэту, ты, презирающий землю; ground [ɡraʋnd] – земля; грунт, почва)!

Teach me half the gladness (научи меня половине /той/ радости)

That thy brain must know (что твой мозг должен знать);

Such harmonious madness (столь гармоничное безумие; harmonious [hɑ:'məʋnɪəs] – гармоничный)

From my lips would flow (с моих губ полилось бы),

The world should listen then, as I am listening now (мир бы слушал тогда /так же/, как я слушаю сейчас)!

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from Heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun

O’er which clouds are bright’ning,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of Heaven

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear

Until we hardly see – we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud.

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,

Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal

Or triumphal chaunt

Matched with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt —

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow

The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE (Ода соловью)

1

My heart aches (мое сердце болит; to ache [eɪk] – болеть, испытывать боль), and a drowsy numbness pains (и сонное оцепенение мучит; drowsy ['draʋzɪ] – засыпающий, дремлющий; сонный; навевающий сон, усыпляющий; numbness ['nʌmnəs] – оцепенение, неподвижность, нечувствительность; numb