Стихи

Наступает минута прощания.
Покидая отеческий край,
Весь в слезах я шепчу: «До свидания!»,
Про себя повторяя: «Прощай!»

На чужбину меня провожая,
Провожая меня в целый мир,
Собралася толпа небольшая
Тех, кого я тогда зафрендил.

Элизиум, прощай,
Меня не забывай,
Прощай, АСП!
Прости-прощай! Прости-прощай!

Летят-летят года,
Но песня со мною всегда!
И так прекрасно
В лазури ясной
Горит-горит одна звезда!
В лазури ясной,
Многотиражной
Горит-горит одна звезда!

Отечество, прощай,
Меня воспоминай,
Прощай, ГРД!
Прости-прощай! Прости-прощай!

Никогда не предам я злословию,
Никогда, ни за что не предам,
Присягнувши такому сословию,
Присягнувши таким вот френдам!
И —
Рам-пам-пам-пам,
Рам-па-па-ру-рам!

– XXXVIII-

The winds out of the west land blow,
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.

It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.

Their voices, dying as they fly,
Thick on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows' and my own.

Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.

The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.

– 38- ГЕТЕРОСЕКСУАЛЬНАЯ АПРОПРИАЦИЯ

The winds out of the west land blow,
My girl has breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of girl I know,
Comes east the sighing air.

It fanned her temples, filled her lungs,
Scattered her forelock free;
My girl made words of it with tongue
That talks no more to me.

Her sweet voice, dying as it flies,
Thick on the wind is sown;
The name of man blows soundless by,
My rival's, not my own.

Oh yesterday I heard you plain,
But now your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
I hollo from the hill.

The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.

– XXXIX-

'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow.

Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may.

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.

– 39-