William Butler Yeats: Все стихи поэта

Все стихи Оригиналы Переводы

1 2 3 4 5 › »

The Indian To His Love

THE island dreams under the dawn

And great boughs drop tranquillity;

The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,

A parrot sways upon a tree,

Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.

Here we will moor our lonely ship

And wander ever with woven hands,

Murmuring softly lip to lip,

by William Butler Yeats

Ephemera

"YOUR eyes that once were never weary of mine

Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,

Because our love is waning."

And then She:

"Although our love is waning, let us stand

By the lone border of the lake once more,

Together in that hour of gentleness

When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

by William Butler Yeats

Oil And Blood

IN tombs of gold and lapis lazuli

Bodies of holy men and women exude

Miraculous oil, odour of violet.

But under heavy loads of trampled clay

Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;

Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.

by William Butler Yeats

Lines Written In Dejection

WHEN have I last looked on

The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies

Of the dark leopards of the moon?

All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,

For all their broom-sticks and their tears,

Their angry tears, are gone.

The holy centaurs of the hills are vanished;

I have nothing but the embittered sun;

by William Butler Yeats

Among School Children

I WALK through the long schoolroom questioning;

A kind old nun in a white hood replies;

The children learn to cipher and to sing,

To study reading-books and histories,

To cut and sew, be neat in everything

In the best modern way — the children's eyes

In momentary wonder stare upon

A sixty-year-old smiling public man.

by William Butler Yeats

The Folly Of Being Comforted

ONE that is ever kind said yesterday:

"Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,

And little shadows come about her eyes;

Time can but make it easier to be wise

Though now it seems impossible, and so

All that you need is patience."

Heart cries, "No,

I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.

by William Butler Yeats

A Poet To His Beloved

I BRING you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams,

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,

And with heart more old than the horn

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams,

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

by William Butler Yeats

Leda And The Swan

A SUDDEN blow: the great wings beating still

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs,

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

by William Butler Yeats

Paudeen

INDIGNANT at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite

Of our old paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind

Among the stones and thorn-trees, under morning light;

Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind

A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought

That on the lonely height where all are in God's eye,

There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,

A single soul that lacks a sweet crystalline cry.

by William Butler Yeats

The Wild Old Wicked Man

Because I am mad about women

I am mad about the hills,'

Said that wild old wicked man

Who travels where God wills.

"Not to die on the straw at home.

Those hands to close these eyes,

That is all I ask, my dear,

From the old man in the skies.

by William Butler Yeats

Nineteen Hundred And Nineteen

MANY ingenious lovely things are gone

That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude,

protected from the circle of the moon

That pitches common things about. There stood

Amid the ornamental bronze and stone

An ancient image made of olive wood —

And gone are phidias' famous ivories

And all the golden grasshoppers and bees.

by William Butler Yeats

Adam's Curse

WE sat together at one summer's end,

That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,

And you and I, and talked of poetry.

I said, "A line will take us hours maybe;

Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,

Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Better go down upon your marrow-bones

And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones

by William Butler Yeats