Читать «Сад любви. Из английской романтической поэзии» онлайн - страница 75

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same (который, разводя цветы, никогда не вырастит одни и те же/те же самые; to breed [bri: d] – разводить, выращивать):

And there shall be for thee all soft delight (и там будет для тебя вся нежная отрада)

That shadowy thought can win (которую /только/ может обрести затемненная/неясная мысль; shadowy ['ʃædəʋɪ] – темный; неясный, смутный; призрачный),

A bright torch (яркий факел), and a casement ope at night (и раскрытое ночью окно; casement ['keɪsmənt] – створный оконный переплет; оконная створка; ope /уст., поэт./ = open),

To let the warm Love in (чтобы впустить теплую Любовь)!

O goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sungEven into thine own soft-conchèd ear:Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I seeThe wingèd Psyche with awaken’d eyes?I wander’d in a forest thoughtlessly,And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couched side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roofOf leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA brooklet, scarce espied:‘Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:The wingèd boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?His Psyche true!O latest born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-region’d star,Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,Nor altar heap’d with flowers;Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moanUpon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweetFrom chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heatOf pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.O brightest! though too late for antique vows,Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retir’dFrom happy pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir’d.So let me be thy choir, and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swingèd censer teeming;Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a faneIn some untrodden region of my mind,Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d treesFledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith the wreath’d trellis of a working brain,With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!

John Keats