Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах (билингва)

Villon, in French none may forget,
“What has become of last year’s snow?”
You asked — nor is there answer yet;
And where did those dead ladies go
With bosoms worn exceeding low.
With hair of gold, and lips of red?
It drifted — would you really know —
Flake after flake upon my head.

Ah! suns may rise and suns may set,

Catullus told us long ago.
But, howsoe’er we fume and fret.
The wind takes all our mortal show.
And youth hath scarcely time to blow
In Life’s brief garden, ere ‘tis fled —
Yet why so early settle so
Flake after flake upon my head?

But yesterday my locks were jet.

Rival of raven and of crow.
Yet, while I dined with Juliet,
And passed the wine-cup to and fro.
For all the glory and the glow.
The gray was creeping thread by thread.
Falling, a soft insidious foe.
Flake after flake upon my head.

Envoi

Ah! Prince, the sorry overthrow!
A man might just as well be dead,
When once the years begin to sow
Flake after flake upon his head.

Ballade of the Junkman

Upon the summer afternoon,
Wafted across the orchard trees,
There comes a ghostly travelling tune,
Blent with the sleepy drone of bees;
Elfin, aёrial it is.
Like shaken bells of silver rain.
And creepy as old melodies—
The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

The ancient hat, the wornout shoon,

The broken-hearted fineries.
The yellowed news, dead as the moon.
The rust, the rubbish, and the lees.
The tarnished trophy, gallantries
Gone to the moth — this clouded cane!
This buckle brave! — for such as these
The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

O thou that wooest deep in June,

Hearken! and thou so fain to seize
Joy, and to hoard it, late and soon.
Thou lord of many locks and keys.
Thick lies the dust — though no man sees —
Upon thy dream; Time sees it plain
On the bright wings, long ere it flies:
The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

Envoi

Prince, ’tis a thought our veins to freeze:
Time doth all hallowed things profane,
And toss about the centuries —
The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

Ballade to A Departing God