Стихи

В летний зной на Селигере
Тишина и благодать.
Так какого ж было хера
Эту музыку врубать?

Бумс, и бумс, и бумс – ужасно

Бьют в дремотные мозги.
Бесконечны, безобразны,
Вижу, движутся полки!

Сколько их, куда их столько?!

Впереди – Аполлион!
Как писал об этом Толкин.
Ох, не ври, совсем не он!

Вскую языки метутся,

Призывая вражью рать…
Все! Пора мне окунуться.
Перегрелся я, видать.

– XXXVI-

White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.

Still hangs the hedge without a gust,

Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.

The world is round, so travellers tell,

And straight though reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.

But ere the circle homeward hies

Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.

– 36-

Блестит дорога под луной,
И не дрожат листы.
Блестит дорога под луной.
Любовь моя, прости!

Светло и чудно в небесах,

В сиянии земля.
Со старой песней на устах
Один шагаю я.

В сияньи голубом земля

Готовится ко сну.
Ну что ж, немного погодя
Я тоже отдохну.

Найду свободу и покой

И сном забудусь я…
Блестит дорога под луной.
Прости, любовь моя.

– XXXVII-

As through the wild green hills of Wyre
The train ran, changing sky and shire,
And far behind, a fading crest,
Low in the forsaken west
Sank the high-reared head of Clee,
My hand lay empty on my knee.
Aching on my knee it lay:
That morning half a shire away
So many an honest fellow's fist
Had well nigh wrung it from the wrist.
Hand, said I, since now we part
From fields and men we know by heart,
For strangers' faces, strangers' lands, —
Hand, you have held true fellows' hands.
Be clean then; rot before you do
A thing they'd not believe of you.
You and I must keep from shame
In London streets the Shropshire name;
On banks of Thames they must not say
Severn breeds worse men than they;
And friends abroad must bear in mind
Friends at home they leave behind.
Oh, I shall be stiff and cold
When I forget you, hearts of gold;
The land where I shall mind you not
Is the land where all's forgot.
And if my foot returns no more
To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,
Luck, my lads, be with you still
By falling stream and standing hill,
By chiming tower and whispering tree,
Men that made a man of me.
About your work in town and farm
Still you'll keep my head from harm,
Still you'll help me, hands that gave
A grasp to friend me to the grave.

– 37- НА МОТИВ «ПРОЩАНИЯ СЛАВЯНКИ»

(По В. Лазареву)