Ольга Гиль - Зарубежная литература XX века. Учебно-методическое пособие

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the word,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere.
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while as about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Шире и шире кружась в воронке,
Сокол сокольничего не слышит;
Связи распались, основа не держит;
Анархия выплеснулась на землю,
Тусклый от крови поток вскипает,
И в нем почтенье к невинности тонет;
Добро утратило убежденья,
Зло одержимо неистовой страстью.
Ясно, что откровенье близко;
Ясно, Второе пришествие близко,
Второе пришествие! Только помянешь
Его, как образ из Spiritus Mundi
Взор потревожит: в песках пустыни
Лев с головой человека и взглядом
Безжалостным и пустым, как солнце,
Поводит бедрами, и на склонах
Мечутся тени разгневанных птиц.
Возвращается мрак; но теперь я знаю,
Что каменный сон двадцати столетий
Был прерван качанием колыбели,
Что ныне зверь, дождавшийся часа,
Ползет в Вифлеем к своему рождеству.
Перевод А. Сергеева

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when whit moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I drooped a berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on a floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Though hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Жар в голове моей пылал,
Я встал и вышел за порог,
В лесу орешину сломал,
Брусникой наживил крючок.
И в час, когда светлела мгла
И гасли звезды-мотыльки,
Я серебристую форель
Поймал на быстрине реки.

Я положил ее в траву
И стал раскладывать костер,
Как вдруг услышал чей-то смех,
Невнятный тихий разговор.
Мерцала девушка во тьме,
Бела, как яблоневый цвет,
Окликнула – и скрылась прочь,
В прозрачный канула рассвет.

Пускай я стар, пускай устал
От косогоров и холмов,
Но чтоб ее поцеловать,
Я снова в мир прийти готов,
И травы мять, и с неба рвать,
Плоды земные разлюбив,
Серебряный налив луны
И солнца золотой налив.

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Мерцанье призрачное лиц в толпе:
Лепестки на черной мокрой ветке.

As cool as the pale wet leaves
of lily-of-the-valley
She lay beside me in the dawn.

Подобно бледным влажным листьям ландыша,
Холодная, она со мной лежала на заре.

Green arsenic smeared on an egg-white close,
Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

Зеленый мышьяк пятном на белковом холсте,
Раздавленная земляника! Какое пиршество зренью.

The black panther treads at my side,
And above my fingers
There float the petal-like flames.

The milk-white girls
Unbend from the holly-trees,
And their snow-white leopard
Watched to follow our trace.

Пантера черная ступает со мной рядом,
А над моими пальцами огни, как лепестки.
Молочно-белые девицы
Освобождаются от дерева,
И снежно-белый леопард их
Зорко смотрит, чтобы следовать за нами.

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
Great minds have sought you – lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind – with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay on. Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
These are you riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that’s quite your own.
Yet this is you.