Мне еще со школы нравится английская поэзия. Привлекает звучание, то, как можно спрессовать эмоции в несколько строчек, то, каким красивым становится язык. И интересно то, как меняются с веками идеалы, как новые идеи отражаются в стихах. Вот несколько стихотворений из тех, которые мне нравятся. Привожу те, на которые авторское право перешло в public domain:***Jenny Kissed Meby Leigh HuntJenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add- Jenny kissed me!***I Am Not Yours by Sara TeasdaleI am not yours, not lost in you,Not lost, although I long to beLost as a candle lit at noon,Lost as a snowflake in the sea.You love me, and I find you stillA spirit beautiful and bright,Yet I am I, who long to beLost as a light is lost in light.Oh plunge me deep in love -- put outMy senses, leave me deaf and blind,Swept by the tempest of your love,A taper in a rushing wind.***After Love by Sara TeasdaleThere is no magic any more,We meet as other people do,You work no miracle for meNor I for you.You were the wind and I the sea --There is no splendor any more,I have grown listless as the poolBeside the shore.But though the pool is safe from stormAnd from the tide has found surcease,It grows more bitter than the sea,For all its peace.***If you were coming in the fall,I'd brush the summer byWith half a smile and half a spurn,As housewives do a fly.If I could see you in a year,I'd wind the months in balls,And put them each in separate drawers,Until their time befalls.If only centuries delayed,I'd count them on my hand,Subtracting till my fingers droppedInto Van Diemen's land.If certain, when this life was out,That yours and mine should be,I'd toss it yonder like a rind,And taste eternity.But now, all ignorant of the lengthOf time's uncertain wing,It goads me, like the goblin bee,That will not state its sting. by Emily Dickinson***Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,Nay, I have done: you get no more of me,And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time againBe it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes,Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.by Michael Drayton***Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett BrowningHow do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of everyday'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.***NO sun--no moon!No morn--no noon!No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--No sky--no earthly view--No distance looking blue--No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--No end to any Row--No indications where the Crescents go--No top to any steeple--No recognitions of familiar people--No courtesies for showing 'em--No knowing 'em!No traveling at all--no locomotion--No inkling of the way--no notion--"No go" by land or ocean--No mail--no post--No news from any foreign coast--No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--No company--no nobility--No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,No comfortable feel in any member--No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--November! by Thomas Hood***Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,And do not drop in for an after-loss:Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,To linger out a purposed overthrow.If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,When other petty griefs have done their spiteBut in the onset come; so shall I tasteAt first the very worst of fortune's might, And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.by William Shakespeare***Rudyard KiplingRecessionalGod of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget!Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!***Not UnderstoodBy James Brunton StephensNot understood, we move along asunder; Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep Along the years; we marvel and we wonder Why life is life, and then we fall asleep Not understood. Not understood, we gather false impressions And hug them closer as the years go by; Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; And thus men rise and fall, and live and die Not understood. Not understood! Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giants with their narrow gauge; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, Not understood. Not understood! The secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and the show, Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbours, and they often go Not understood. Not understood! How trifles often change us! The thoughtless sentence and the fancied slight Destroy long years of friendship, and estrange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight; Not understood. Not understood! How many breasts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking! How many noble spirits pass away, Not understood. O God! that men would see a little clearer, Or judge less harshly where they cannot see! O God! that men would draw a little nearer To one another, -- they'd be nearer Thee, And understood.***Edward Rowland SillThe Fool's PrayerThe royal feast was done; the KingSought some new sport to banish care,And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"The jester doffed his cap and bells,And stood the mocking court before;They could not see the bitter smileBehind the painted grin he wore.He bowed his head, and bent his kneeUpon the monarch's silken stool;His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool!"No pity, Lord, could change the heartFrom red with wrong to white as wool;The rod must heal the sin; but Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool!" 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweepOf truth and right, O Lord, we stay;'Tis by our follies that so longWe hold the earth from heaven away."These clumsy feet, still in the mire,Go crushing blossoms without end;These hard, well-meaning hands we thrustAmong the heart-strings of a friend."The ill-timed truth we might have kept-Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?The word we had not sense to say-Who knows how grandly it had rung?"Our faults no tenderness should ask,The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;But for our blunders-oh, in shameBefore the eyes of heaven we fall."Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;Men crown the knave, and scourge the toolThat did his will; but Thou, O Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool!"The room was hushed; in silence roseThe King, and sought his gardens cool,And walked apart, and murmured low,"Be merciful to me, a fool!"А вам какие стихи нравятся, на любом языке?
