Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям. Страница 42

WRITTEN IN MARCH

                         The Cock is crowing,
                         The stream is flowing,
                         The small birds twitter,
                         The lake doth glitter,
                      The green field sleeps in the sun;
                         The oldest and youngest
                         Are at work with the strongest;
                         The cattle are grazing,
                         Their heads never raising;
                      There are forty feeding like one!
                         Like an army defeated
                         The snow hath retreated,
                         And now doth fare ill
                         On the top of the bare hill;
                      The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon:
                         There's joy in the mountains;
                         There's life in the fountains;
                         Small clouds are sailing,
                         Blue sky prevailing;
                      The rain is over and gone!

НАПИСАННОЕ В МАРТЕ [64]

                           Петух ликует,
                           Ручей воркует,
                           Щебечут птицы,
                           Вода искрится,
                           Земля ожидает зерна.
                           И старый, и малый
                           Бредет усталый.
                           На травке новой
                           Пасутся коровы,
                           Все тридцать жуют как одна.
                           Снегов остатки
                           Бегут в беспорядке,
                           И гибнет зима
                           На вершине холма,
                           И пахаря песня слышна, слышна.
                           В горах высоких
                           Звенят потоки.
                           А дождь как не был,
                           Синеет небо,
                           И тучи уносит весна.

TO A BUTTERFLY

                   I've watched you now a full half-hour,
                   Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
                   And, little Butterfly! indeed
                   I know not if you sleep or feed.
                   How motionless! — not- frozen seas
                   More motionless! and then
                   What joy awaits you, when the breeze
                   Hath found you out among the trees,
                   And calls you forth again!
                   This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
                   My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
                   Here rest your wings when they are weary;
                   Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
                   Come often to us, fear no wrong;
                   Sit near us on the bough!
                   We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
                   And summer days, when we were young;
                   Sweet childish days, that were as long
                   As twenty days are now.

"Над желтым наклонясь цветком…" [65]

                       Над желтым наклонясь цветком,
                       Тобой, малюткой-мотыльком,
                       Я любовался и не знал,
                       Нектар вкушал ты или спал.
                       И был ты неподвижней вод
                                    объятых льдом морей.
                       Счастливым будет ли полет,
                       Когда внезапный ветр найдет
                                     тебя среди ветвей?
                       Останься с нами! Мы с сестрой
                       Тебе подарим садик свой.
                       Здесь отдохнут твои крыла.
                       Тебе не причиним мы зла!
                       Будь гостем нашим дорогим,
                              присядь на куст близ нас.
                       О детских днях поговорим,
                       Их летний свет неповторим,
                       И каждый долгим был — таким,
                               как двадцать дней сейчас.

THE GREEN LINNET

                 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
                 Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
                 With brightest sunshine round me spread
                    Of spring's unclouded weather,
                 In this sequestered nook how sweet
                 To sit upon my orchard-seat!
                 And birds and flowers once more to greet,
                    My last year's friends together.
                 One have I marked, the happiest guest
                 In all this covert of the blest:.
                 Hail to Thee, for above the rest
                    In joy of voice and pinion!
                 Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
                 Presiding Spirit here to-day,
                 Dost lead the revels of the May;
                    And this is thy dominion.
                 While birds, aid butterflies, and flowers,
                 Make all one band of paramours,
                 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
                    Art sole in thy employment:
                 A Life, a Presence like the Air,
                 Scattering thy gladness without care,
                 Too blest with any one to pair;
                    Thyself thy own enjoyment.
                 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
                 That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
                 Behold him perched in ecstasies,
                    Yet seeming still to hover;
                 There! where the flutter of his wings
                 Upon his back and body flings
                 Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
                    That cover him all over.
                 My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
                 A Brother of the dancing leaves;
                 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
                    Pours forth his song in gushes;
                 As if by that exulting strain
                 He mocked and treated with disdain
                 The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
                    While fluttering in the bushes.