Andrew Lang: Все стихи поэта

Все стихи Оригиналы Переводы

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 5 › »

A Portrait Of 1783

Your hair and chin are like the hair

And chin Burne-Jones's ladies wear;

You were unfashionably fair

In '83;

And sad you were when girls are gay,

You read a book about Le vrai

Merite de l'homme, alone in May.

What CAN it be,

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of True Wisdom

While others are asking for beauty or fame,

Or praying to know that for which they should pray,

Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,

Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey,

The sage has found out a more excellent way -

To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,

And his humble petition puts up day by day,

For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Voyage To Cythera

I know Cythera long is desolate;

I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.

Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight

A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been,

Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!

So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,

To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,

To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile;

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Roulette

This life--one was thinking to-day,

In the midst of a medley of fancies -

Is a game, and the board where we play

Green earth with her poppies and pansies.

Let manque be faded romances,

Be passe remorse and regret;

Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances -

The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.

Andrew Lang

Ballades III - Of Blue China

THERE’S a joy without canker or cark,

There ’s a pleasure eternally new,

’T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark

Of china that ’s ancient and blue;

Unchipp’d, all the centuries through

It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang,

And they fashion’d it, figure and hue,

In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

Andrew Lang

Les Roses de Sâdi

This morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses,

They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses;

But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.

The breast-knots were broken; the roses together

Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,

And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.

And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses;

But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the roses,

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Blind Love

Who have loved and ceased to love, forget

That ever they loved in their lives, they say;

Only remember the fever and fret,

And the pain of Love, that was all his pay;

All the delight of him passes away

From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met -

Too late did I love you, my love, and yet

I shall never forget till my dying day.

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Summer Term

When Lent and Responsions are ended,

When May with fritillaries waits,

When the flower of the chestnut is splendid,

When drags are at all of the gates

(Those drags the philosopher "slates"

With a scorn that is truly sublime),

Life wins from the grasp of the Fates

Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Dead Cities

The dust of Carthage and the dust

Of Babel on the desert wold,

The loves of Corinth, and the lust,

Orchomenos increased with gold;

The town of Jason, over-bold,

And Cherson, smitten in her prime -

What are they but a dream half-told?

Where are the cities of old time?

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Cleopatra's Needle

Ye giant shades of RA and TUM,

Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,

If murmurs of our planet come

To exiles in the precincts wan

Where, fetish or Olympian,

To help or harm no more ye list,

Look down, if look ye may, and scan

This monument in London mist!

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Old Plays

LA COUR.

When these Old Plays were new, the King,

Beside the Cardinal's chair,

Applauded, 'mid the courtly ring,

The verses of Moliere;

Point-lace was then the only wear,

Old Corneille came to woo,

And bright Du Parc was young and fair,

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Royal Game Of Golf

There are laddies will drive ye a ba'

To the burn frae the farthermost tee,

But ye mauna think driving is a',

Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,

Ye may land in the sand or the sea;

And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,

Tak' the word that an auld man'll gie,

Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!

Andrew Lang