Сад любви. Из английской романтической поэзии

And full-grown lambs (и выросшие барашки; full-grown – выросший; рослый: «полностью выросший»; lamb [læm] – ягненок, барашек; овечка) loud bleat from hilly bourn (громко блеют со стороны: «от» холмистого ручья = от ручья, укрывшегося среди холмов; hill – холм; bourn [bɔ:n] – /уст./ ручей; поток);

Hedge-crickets sing (сверчки живой изгороди поют; hedge – живая изгородь; cricket – сверчок); and now with treble soft (и вот нежным дискантом; treble – дискант; сопрано)

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft (малиновка свистит из садового участка; croft [krɒft] – небольшой участок земли /для пашни или пастбища/; приусадебный участок; небольшая ферма /в Шотландии/);

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies (и собирающиеся ласточки щебечут в небе; to gather ['ɡæðə] – собираться /вместе, воедино/; swallow ['swɒləʋ] – ласточка; to twitter – чирикать, щебетать).

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, —
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

JOURNAL IN CEPHALONIA 30 (Из дневника в Кефалонии)

The dead have been awakened (мертвые/мертвецы были разбужены/пробуждены) – shall I sleep (а я должен спать)?