Andrew Lang: Все стихи поэта

Все стихи Оригиналы Переводы

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 5 › »

Ballade Of The Dream

Swift as sound of music fled

When no more the organ sighs,

Sped as all old days are sped,

So your lips, love, and your eyes,

So your gentle-voiced replies

Mine one hour in sleep that seem,

Rise and flit when slumber flies,

Following darkness like a dream!

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Dead Ladies

Nay, tell me now in what strange air

The Roman Flora dwells to-day.

Where Archippiada hides, and where

Beautiful Thais has passed away?

Whence answers Echo, afield, astray,

By mere or stream,--around, below?

Lovelier she than a woman of clay;

Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

Andrew Lang

Ballade Against The Jesuits

Rome does right well to censure all the vain

Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach

That earthly joys are damnable! 'Tis plain

We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach;

No, amble on! We'll gain it, one and all;

The narrow path's a dream fantastical,

And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven

Mirth from the world. We'll scale the heavenly wall,

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Amoureuse

Not Jason nor Medea wise,

I crave to see, nor win much lore,

Nor list to Orpheus' minstrelsies;

Nor Her'cles would I see, that o'er

The wide world roamed from shore to shore;

Nor, by St. James, Penelope, -

Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore:

To see my Love suffices me!

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Aucassin

Where smooth the southern waters run

By rustling leagues of poplars grey,

Beneath a veiled soft southern sun,

We wandered out of yesterday,

Went maying through that ancient May

Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,

And loitered by the fountain spray

With Aucassin and Nicolette.

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Muse

The man whom once, Melpomene,

Thou look'st on with benignant sight,

Shall never at the Isthmus be

A boxer eminent in fight,

Nor fares he foremost in the flight

Of Grecian cars to victory,

Nor goes with Delian laurels dight,

The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Midnight Forest

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,

Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;

The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,

And wolves still dread Diana roaming free

In secret woodland with her company.

'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite

When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,

And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of His Books

Here stand my books, line upon line

They reach the roof, and row by row,

They speak of faded tastes of mine,

And things I did, but do not, know:

Old school books, useless long ago,

Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in,

Could scarcely answer "yes" or "no" -

The many things I've tried and failed in!

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Sleep

The hours are passing slow,

I hear their weary tread

Clang from the tower, and go

Back to their kinsfolk dead.

Sleep! death's twin brother dread!

Why dost thou scorn me so?

The wind's voice overhead

Long wakeful here I know,

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of Autumn

We built a castle in the air,

In summer weather, you and I,

The wind and sun were in your hair, -

Gold hair against a sapphire sky:

When Autumn came, with leaves that fly

Before the storm, across the plain,

You fled from me, with scarce a sigh -

My Love returns no more again!

Andrew Lang

The Odyssey

AS one that for a weary space has lain

Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine

In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,

Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main,

And only the low lutes of love complain,

And only shadows of wan lovers pine—

As such an one were glad to know the brine

Salt on his lips, and the large air again—

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Tweed

The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe,

A weary cry frae ony toun;

The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa',

They praise a' ither streams aboon;

They boast their braes o' bonny Doon:

Gie ME to hear the ringing reel,

Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon

By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!

Andrew Lang