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|Ñóùåñòâóþ ëè ÿ? Ñóùåñòâóåò òåëî|
|Óçîê ÿçûê äëÿ ñòðàñòåé è îøåéíèêîì äóøèò|
It is the evening hour,
How silent all doth lie,
The horned moon he shows his face
In the river with the sky.
Just by the path on which we pass,
The flaggy lake lies still as glass.
Spirit of her I love,
Whispering to me,
Stories of sweet visions, as I rove,
Here stop, and crop with me
Sweet flowers that in the still hour grew,
We’ll take them home, nor shake off the bright dew.
Mary, or sweet spirit of thee,
As the bright sun shines tomorrow.
Thy dark eyes these flowers shall see,
Gathered by me in sorrow.
In the still hour when my mind was free
Walk alone - yet wish I walked with thee.
Óçîê ÿçûê äëÿ ñòðàñòåé è îøåéíèêîì äóøèò
Language has not the power to speak what love indites:
The Soul lies buried in the ink that writes.
"Ñóùåñòâóþ ëè ÿ? Ñóùåñòâóåò òåëî
1 I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,
2 My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
3 I am the self-consumer of my woes,
4 They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
5 Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
6 And yet I am! and live with shadows tost
7 Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
8 Into the living sea of waking dreams,
9 Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
10 But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
11 And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
12 Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.
13 I long for scenes where man has never trod;
14 A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
15 There to abide with my creator, God,
16 And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
17 Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
18 The grass below--above the vaulted sky.
ÂÅ×ÅÐÍßß ÄÎÉÊÀThe milking hour
Old noted oak! I saw thee in a mood
Of vague indifference; and yet with me
Thy memory, like the fate, hath lingering stood
For years, yhou hermit, in the lonely sea
Of grass that waves around thee! Solitude
Paints not a lonelier picture to the view,
Burthorp! than thy one melancholy tree
Age-rent, and shattered to a stump. Yet new
Leaves come upon each rift and broken limb
With every spring; and Poesy's visions swim
Around it, of old days and shivalry;
And desolate fancies bid the eyes grow dim
With feelings, that earth's grandeur should decay,
And all its olden memories pass away.
© 2001 Elena and Yacov Feldman