Читать «Сад любви. Из английской романтической поэзии» онлайн - страница 41

Beat its straight path across the dusky air (проложил свой прямой путь по сумеречному небу; to beat – бить; прокладывать путь; /мор./ лавировать, бороться со встречным ветром, течением; straight [streɪt] – прямой; across [ə'krɒs] – поперек; от края до края; dusk – сумерки; полумрак, сумрак)

Homewards (/летя/ домой/по направлению к дому), I blest it (я благословил его; to bless)! deeming its black wing (полагая = решив, что его черное крыло = черные крылья)

(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light (то темное/смутное пятно, то исчезая = утопая в свете; dim – тусклый, неяркий; полутемный; to vanish ['vænɪʃ] – исчезать, пропадать))

Had cross’d the mighty Orb’s dilated glory (пересекли расширившееся великолепие могучего светила; to dilate [daɪ'leɪt] – расширяться),

While thou stood’st gazing (в то время как ты стоял, всматриваясь); or, when all was still (или когда все замерло: «было тихим/недвижным»),

Flew creeking o’er thy head (пролетели, скрипя, над твоей головой; to creek = creak – скрипеть), and had a charm (и имело чару/очарование)

For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles (для тебя, мой добросердечный Чарльз), to whom (для которого)

No sound is dissonant which tells of Life (ни один звук не является дисгармоничным/неблагозвучным, который говорит/рассказывает о жизни; dissonant ['dɪs(ə)nənt] – неблагозвучный; диссонирующий /звучащий не в тон/).

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lostBeauties and feelings, such as would have beenMost sweet to my remembrance even when ageHad dimm’d mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,Friends, whom I never more may meet again,On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,To that still roaring dell, of which I told;The roaring dell, o’erwooded, narrow, deep,And only speckled by the mid-day sun;Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rockFlings arching like a bridge; – that branchless ash,Unsunn’d and damp, whose few poor yellow leavesNe’er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,Fann’d by the water-fall! and there my friendsBehold the dark green file of long lank weeds,That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edgeOf the blue clay-stone.Now, my friends emergeBeneath the wide wide Heaven – and view againThe many-steepled tract magnificentOf hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light upThe slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two IslesOf purple shadow! Yes! they wander onIn gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pinedAnd hunger’d after Nature, many a year,In the great City pent, winning thy wayWith sad yet patient soul, through evil and painAnd strange calamity! Ah! slowly sinkBehind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friendStruck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing roundOn the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seemLess gross than bodily; and of such huesAs veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makesSpirits perceive his presence.A delightComes sudden on my heart, and I am gladAs I myself were there! Nor in this bower,This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark’dMuch that has sooth’d me. Pale beneath the blazeHung the transparent foliage; and I watch’dSome broad and sunny leaf, and lov’d to seeThe shadow of the leaf and stem aboveDappling its sunshine! And that walnut-treeWas richly ting’d, and a deep radiance layFull on the ancient ivy, which usurpsThose fronting elms, and now, with blackest massMakes their dark branches gleam a lighter hueThrough the late twilight: and though now the batWheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,Yet still the solitary humble-beeSings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall knowThat Nature ne’er deserts the wise and pure;No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,No waste so vacant, but may well employEach faculty of sense, and keep the heartAwake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes‘Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good,That we may lift the soul, and contemplateWith lively joy the joys we cannot share.My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rookBeat its straight path across the dusky airHomewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)Had cross’d the mighty Orb’s dilated glory,While thou stood’st gazing; or, when all was still,Flew creeking o’er thy head, and had a charmFor thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whomNo sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge