Ирина Явчуновская: С миру по нитке. Поэтические переводы

And only the poet
With wings to his brain
Can mount him and ride him
Without any rein,

The stallion of heaven,
The steed of the skies,
The horse of the singer
Who sings as he flies.

В крови Медузы
Возник Пегас.
Владенье Музы —
Его Парнас.

Никем не пойман,
Стремится ввысь.
Бег – ритм стройный,
А отдых – мысль.

Знаком с печалью
И слышит смех
Небесных далей,
Земных утех.

Причем тут вожжи,
Уздечки нет.
Дать крылья может
Один Поэт.

Тот конь небесный
Летит, поет.
В полете песня —
Певца полет.

The night will never stay,
The night will still go by…

Though with a million stars
You pin it to the sky

Though you bind it
with the blowing wind
And buckle it with the moon,
The night will slip away
Like sorrow or a tune.

Ночь навек себя не оставит,
Ночь придет, но потом растает…

Ты ветром звезды вобьешь, как гвозди,
Пускай темно.
Ты месяц тонкий пришьешь иголкой,
Но все равно —
Не остановишь; тропой печальной
Проходит ночь.
И, словно грусть иль мотив случайный,
Уходит прочь.

There isn’t time, there isn’t time
To do the things I want to do,
With all the mountain-tops to climb,
And all the woods to wander through,
And all the seas to sail upon,
And everywhere there is to go,
And all the people, every one
Who lives upon the earth, to know.
To know a few, and do a few,
And then sit down and make a rhyme
About the rest I want to do.

Нет времени – и точка, нет времени совсем.
Но только в этих строчках хочу признаться всем:
Нет времени взобраться на горные хребты,
Нет времени скитаться в лесу до темноты,
Днем солнечным весенним качаться на морях,
Знакомиться со всеми людьми в любых краях.
И делаю так мало и знаю лишь чуть-чуть,
Но рифм насобирала на самый дальний путь.
Сижу, пока сидится, и рифмами верчу,
А с ними совершится всё то, что захочу.

O’Driscoll drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.

And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.