Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям - Страница 44

44

TO THE CUCKOO

                     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!

КУКУШКА[68]

                       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…"

                   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.