Уильям Вордсворт - Избранная лирика

                      Behold her, single in the field,
                      Yon solitary Highland Lass!
                      Reaping and singing by herself;
                      Stop here, or gently pass!
                      Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
                      And sings a melancholy strain;
                      О listen! for the Vale profound
                      Is overflowing with the sound.

                      No Nightingale did ever chaunt
                      More welcome notes to weary bands
                      Of travellers in some shady haunt,
                      Among Arabian sands:
                      A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
                      In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
                      Breaking the silence of the seas
                      Among the farthest Hebrides.

                      Will no one tell me what she sings? —
                      Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
                      For old, unhappy, far-off things,
                      And battles long ago:
                      Or is it some more humble lay,
                      Familiar matter of to-day?
                      Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
                      That has been, and may be again?
                      Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
                      As if her song could have no ending;
                      I saw her singing at her work,
                      And o'er the sickle bending; —
                      I listened, motionless and still;
                      And, as I mounted up the hill
                      The music in my heart I bore,
                      Long after it was heard no more.

                       Ты слышишь голос там, во ржи,
                       Шотландской девушки простой,
                       Но, чтобы песню не спугнуть,
                       Ты на виду не стой.
                       И жнет, и вяжет — все одна,
                       И песня долгая грустна,
                       И в тишине звучит напев,
                       Глухой долиной завладев.
                       Так аравийский соловей
                       В тени оазиса поет,
                       И об усталости своей
                       Не помнит пешеход.
                       Так возвещает о весне
                       Кукушки оклик, нежный зов
                       В пустынной дальней стороне
                       Гебридских островов.

                       О чем же девушка поет,
                       Все заунывней и грустней?
                       О черных днях былых невзгод,
                       О битвах прежних дней,
                       Старинной песней хороня
                       Невзгоды нынешнего дня.
                       А может, боль былых утрат
                       Пришла непрошеной назад?
                       Но песне не было конца,
                       И жница молодая
                          Все пела, пела, над серпом
                          Спины не разгибая.
                       Я молча слушал, а потом
                       Нашел тропинку за холмом.
                       Все дальше в горы я спешу
                       И в сердце песню уношу.

                     O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
                     I hear thee and rejoice.
                     O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
                     Or but a wandering Voice?

                     While I am lying on the grass
                     Thy twofold shout I hear,
                     From hill to hill it seems to pass,
                     At once far off, and near.

                     Though babbling only to the Vale,
                     Of sunshine and of flowers,
                     Thou bringest unto me a tale
                     Of visionary hours.

                     Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
                     Even yet thou art to me
                     No bird, but an invisible thing,
                     A voice, a mystery;

                     The same whom in my school-boy days
                     I listened to; that Cry
                     Which made me look a thousand ways
                     In bush, and tree, and sky.

                     To seek thee did I often rove
                     Through woods and on the green;
                     And thou wert still a hope, a love;
                     Still longed for, never seen.

                     And I can listen to thee yet;
                     Can lie upon the plain
                     And listen, till I do beget
                     That golden time again.

                     О blessed Bird! the earth we pace
                     Again appears to be
                     An unsubstantial, faery place;
                     That is fit home for Thee!

                       С восторгом слышу голос твой,
                          Кукушка, гость весны!
                       О, кто ты? — птица, иль пустой
                          Лишь голос с вышины?

                       Я слышу твой двухзвучный стон,
                          Здесь лежа на траве;
                       Вблизи, вдали — повсюду он
                          В воздушной синеве.

                       Долинам весть приносит он
                          О солнце, о цветах,
                       А мне — волшебный сладкий сон
                          О прошлых чудных днях.

                       Пленяй, как некогда, мне слух!
                          Доныне, гость долин,
                       Ты мне не птица; нет, ты дух,
                          Загадка, звук один, —

                       Тот звук, который в прежни дни,
                          Как школьник, я искал,
                       Везде, и в небе, и в тени
                          Дерев, и в недрах скал.

                       Бывало, целый день везде
                          В лесах, лугах брожу;
                       Ищу повсюду, но нигде
                          Тебя не нахожу.

                       Так и теперь я слушать рад
                          Твой крик в лесной тени.
                       Я жду: не придут ли назад
                          Давно минувши дни.

                       И снова кажется мне мир
                          Каким-то царством снов,
                       Куда принесся, как на пир,
                          Ты, вешний гость лесов!

                   She was a Phantom of delight
                   When first she gleamed upon my sight;
                   A lovely Apparition, sent
                   To be a moment's ornament;
                   Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
                   Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
                   But all things else about her drawn
                   From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
                   A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
                   To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

                   I saw her upon nearer view,
                   A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
                   Her household motions light and free,
                   And steps of virgin-liberty;
                   A countenance in which did meet
                   Sweet records, promises as sweet;
                   A Creature not too bright or good
                   For human nature's daily food;
                   For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
                   Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

                   And now I see with eye serene
                   The very pulse of the machine;
                   A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
                   A Traveller between life and death;
                   The reason firm, the temperate will,
                   Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
                   A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
                   To warn, to comfort, and command;
                   And yet a Spirit still, and bright
                   With something of angelic light.