English Poetry.

[Клавка_Халявина]

I like Robert Burns a lot, expecially this poem. :P

Can anyone add something nice.

Coming Through The Rye
by Robert Burns

Coming thro' the rye, poor body,
Coming thro' the rye,
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming thro' the rye.

O, Jenny's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming thro' the rye.

Gin a body meet a body
Coming thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body -
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Coming thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body -
Need the warld ken?

[aprilneverends]

оч люблю, а вот и перевод Маршака:

Пробираясь до калитки
Полем вдоль межи,
Дженни вымокла до нитки
Вечером во ржи.

Очень холодно девчонке,
Бьет девчонку дрожь:
Замочила все юбчонки,
Идя через рожь.

Если кто-то звал кого-то
Сквозь густую рожь
И кого-то обнял кто-то,
Что с него возьмешь?

И какая нам забота,
Если у межи
Целовался с кем-то кто-то
Вечером во ржи!..

[aprilneverends]

баллады очень люблю. хотела перепечатать сюда свою любимую- "Тэм Лин", но она ужасно длинная...

[LAman]

У нас в школе целый этаж был отдан английским классам. На стенах висели портреты английских писателей и поэтов, а также цитаты и стихи. Из них надолго запомнился вот этот (пришлось искать по названию, а ведь когда-то знал наизусть... :( )

She Walks In Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Wich heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet elocuent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent

(c) Lord Byron

[abc]

С Клавкой странная заявка,
Всегда пишет в темах с явкой,
Обсуждает значит чинно,
А теперь в другой стихии,
Стих ее достал в тихии :D

[Verbatim]

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

[Verbatim]

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where of late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset faideth in the West
Which by and by black night doth take away
Death's second self, which seals up all in rest.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
As on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73

[LAman]

С Клавкой странная заявка,
Всегда пишет в темах с явкой,
Обсуждает значит чинно,
А теперь в другой стихии,
Стих ее достал в тихии :D

АВС, никак не вспомню, это Эмили Дикинсон или Оскар Уальд?

[aprilneverends]

William Shakespeare.
154. Sonnets
x

THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!

[Verbatim]

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William E. Henley, "Invictus".