Уильям Вордсворт - Избранная лирика

               "Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind;
               Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
               Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind,
               A mournful thing so transient is the blaze!"
               Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
               Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
               To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
               And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
               Imagination is that sacred power,
               Imagination lofty and refined:
               'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
               Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
               Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
               And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

                      "Слаб человек и разуменьем слеп;
                      Тяжел он для Удачи легкокрылой,
                      Беспомощен пред Памятью унылой
                      И в тщетной жажде Радости нелеп!" —

                      Так думал тот, кто сумерки судеб
                      Впервые озарил волшебной Силой,
                      Что сразу вознесла Рассудок хилый
                      Над тусклой явью будничных потреб.

                      Воображенье — вот сей дар желанный,
                      Свет мысленный и истинный оплот,
                      Лишь амарант его благоуханный

                      Чело страдальца тихо обовьет, —
                      Его не сдуют бедствий ураганы,
                      Его и ветер скорби не сомнет.

                   Surprised by joy-impatient as the Wind
                   I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom
                   But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
                   That spot which no vicissitude can find?
                   Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind —
                   But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
                   Even for the least division of an hour,
                   Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
                   To my most grievous loss! — That thought's return
                   Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
                   Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
                   Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
                   That neither present time, nor years unborn
                   Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

                      Смутясь от радости, я обернулся,
                      Чтоб поделиться — с кем, как не с тобой? —
                      Но над твоей могильною плитой,
                      Увы, давно безмолвный мрак сомкнулся.

                      Любовь моя! Я словно бы очнулся
                      От наваждения… Ужель я мог
                      Забыть, хотя бы на ничтожный срок,
                      Свою потерю? Как я обманулся?

                      И так мне стало больно в этот миг,
                      Как никогда еще — с той самой даты,
                      Когда, у гроба стоя, я постиг,

                      Неотвратимым холодом объятый,
                      Что навсегда померк небесный лик
                      И годы мне не возместят утраты.

              While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
              With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
              In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
              Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
              His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
              Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
              And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
              Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
              For me, who under kindlier laws belong
              To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
              Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
              Announce a season potent to renew,
              'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
              And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

                   Еще и лист в дубраве не поблек,
                      И жатвы с нив, под ясным небосклоном,
                      Не срезал серп, а в воздухе студеном,
                      Пахнувшем с гор, где Дух Зимы извлек

                   Ледяный меч, мне слышится намек,
                      Что скоро лист спадет в лесу зеленом.
                      И шепчет лист певцам весны со стоном:
                      Скорей на юг, ваш недруг недалек!

                   А я, зимой поющий, как и летом,
                      Без трепета, в том шелесте глухом
                      Густых лесов и в ясном блеске том

                   Осенних дней, жду с радостным приветом
                      Снегов и бурь, когда сильней согрет,
                      Чем в летний зной, восторгом муз поэт.

               Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
               Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night;
               But studious only to remove from sight
               Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power!
               Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower,
               To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
               Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
               On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower
               Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen
               The self-same Vision which we now behold,
               At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth;
               These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;
               The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old
               As the beginning of the heavens and earth!

                    О Сумрак, предвечерья государь!
                    Халиф на час, ты Тьмы ночной щедрее,
                    Когда стираешь, над землею рея,
                    Все преходящее. — О древний царь!

                    Не так ли за грядой скалистой встарь
                    Мерцал залив, когда в ложбине хмурой
                    Косматый бритт, покрытый волчьей шкурой,
                    Устраивал себе ночлег? Дикарь,

                    Что мог узреть он в меркнущем просторе
                    Пред тем, как сном его глаза смежило? —
                    То, что доныне видим мы вдали:

                    Подкову темных гор, и это море,
                    Прибой и звезды — все, что есть и было
                    От сотворенья неба и земли.

                    There's something in a flying horse,
                    There's something in a huge balloon;
                    But through the clouds I'll never float
                    Until I have a little Boat,
                    Shaped like the crescent-moon.

                    And now I _have_ a little Boat,
                    In shape a very crescent-moon
                    Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
                    But if perchance your faith should fail,
                    Look up — and you shall see me soon!

                    The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
                    Rocking and roaring like a sea;
                    The noise of danger's in your ears,
                    And ye have all a thousand fears
                    Both for my little Boat and me!

                    Meanwhile untroubled I admire
                    The pointed horns of my canoe;
                    And, did not pity touch my breast,
                    To see how ye are all distrest,
                    Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

                    Away we go, my Boat and I —
                    Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
                    Whether among the winds we strive,
                    Or deep into the clouds we dive,
                    Each is contented with the other.

                    Away we go — and what care we
                    For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
                    We are as calm in our delight
                    As is the crescent-moon so bright
                    Among the scattered stars.

                    Up goes my Boat among the stars
                    Through many a breathless field of light,
                    Through many a long blue field of ether,
                    Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
                    Up goes my little Boat so bright!

                    The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull —
                    We pry among them all; have shot
                    High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
                    Covered from top to toe with scars;
                    Such company I like it not!

                    The towns in Saturn are decayed,
                    And melancholy Spectres throng them; —
                    The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
                    Each other in the vast abyss,
                    With joy I sail among them.

                    Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
                    Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
                    But these, and all that they contain,
                    What are they to that tiny grain,
                    That little Earth of ours?

                    Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth: —
                    Whole ages if I here should roam,
                    The world for my remarks and me
                    Would not a whit the better be;
                    I've left my heart at home.

                    See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
                    There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
                    Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
                    Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
                    Like waters in commotion!

                    Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands;
                    That silver thread the river Dnieper!
                    And look, where clothed in brightest green
                    Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
                    Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!