Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям - Страница 42

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.