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

Words fall, words fail, like rocks, like falling stones;
Out of the towered clouds and the dark air,
Words fail, and a tree of blackness falls:
There is nothing at all to surrender or defend.

It was a grim castle, built in the bad years,

Built by an old man after years of failure,
Stuccoed with long complacency, and now
No more than an empty wineskin or a crushed fruit.

From the dark earth, the tree broke out, and men

Died with a frantic zeal, and spitting death:
Who knows what it was they died for?
Their bones are a dust, and their names forgotten.

Suburbs creep up the hill, and the trams are running,

Children find ghostly playmates in the ruins;
The sun glares on the emptiness, and vanished walls
Burn with a bitter death and unfulfilled perfection.

Stamp out the memory of old wars and lost causes:

Build a grave citadel of peace, or a tower of death:
The castle stands, inhuman, incorruptible,
Like a film before the eyes, or a mad vision.

The Images Of Death

The hawk, the furred eagle, the smooth panther—
Images of desire and power, images of death,
These we adore and fear, these we need,
Move in the solitude of night or the tall sky,
Move with a strict grace to the one fulfilment:
The Greenland falcon, the beautiful one,
Lives on carrion and dives inevitably to the prey.

To be human is more difficult:

To be human is to know oneself, to hold the broken mirror,
To become aware of justice, truth, mercy,
To choose the difficult road, to aim
Crookedly, for the direct aim is failure,
To abandon the way of the hawk and the grey falcon.

These fall, and fall stupidly:

To be human is to fall, but not stupidly;
To suffer, but not for a simple end;
To choose, and know the penalty of choice;
To read the intensity of human eyes and features;
To know the intricacy of life and the value of death;
To remember the furred eagle and the smooch panther,
The images of death, and death’s simplicity.

The Caves