margin ['m:n] rustling ['rsl] bygone ['ban] civilization [,svla'zen]

And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops down to kiss it with a sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms around it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever whispering, out to meet its king, the sea — till our voices die away in silence, and the pipes go out — till we, common-place, everyday young men enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not care or want to speak — till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the lapping water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still stars, and dream that the world is young again — young and sweet as she used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face, ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart — sweet as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us, her children, upon her own deep breast — ere the wiles of painted civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many thousands years ago.

Harris said:

"How about when it rained (а что, если пойдет дождь; how about — как насчет)?"

You can never rouse Harris (никогда нельзя вывести Гарриса из себя; to rouse — пробуждать/ся/; вызывать /какие-либо эмоции/, возбуждать /интерес и т.д./). There is no poetry about Harris (в Гаррисе нет поэтичности; poetry — поэзия, стихи; поэтичность) — no wild yearning for the unattainable (нет буйного порыва к недостижимому; yearning — сильное желание, острая тоска; to attain — достигать; добиваться). Harris never "weeps, he knows not why (Гаррис никогда не «плачет, не зная почему»)." If Harris's eyes fill with tears (если глаза Гарриса наполняются слезами), you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions (можете биться об заклад: это оттого, /что/ Гаррис ел /только что/ сырой лук), or has put too much Worcester over his chop (или полил слишком много острого соуса на свою отбивную/котлету; Worcester sauce — вустерский соус, острая соевая приправа /к мясу, рыбе/).

If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say (если бы вы стояли ночью на берегу моря с Гаррисом и сказали бы):

"Hark (чу; hark — слушай! чу!)! do you not hear (разве ты не слышишь)? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the waving waters (может, это русалки поют глубоко под волнующимися водами = в глубине); or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by seaweed (или печальные духи поют погребальную песнь бледным трупам = утопленникам, опутанным водорослями; to chant — петь, воспевать; монотонно говорить; dirge — панихида; похоронное пение; to hold — держать/ся/, удерживать/ся/)?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say (Гаррис взял бы вас за руку и сказал бы):

rouse [rauz] poetry ['putr] onion ['njn] Worcester ['wust]

Harris said:

"How about when it rained?"

You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris — no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why." If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.

If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:

"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say: