Зарубежная литература XX века. Учебно-методическое пособие

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the word,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere.
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while as about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Второе пришествие

Шире и шире кружась в воронке,

Сокол сокольничего не слышит;
Связи распались, основа не держит;
Анархия выплеснулась на землю,
Тусклый от крови поток вскипает,
И в нем почтенье к невинности тонет;
Добро утратило убежденья,
Зло одержимо неистовой страстью.
Ясно, что откровенье близко;
Ясно, Второе пришествие близко,
Второе пришествие! Только помянешь
Его, как образ из Spiritus Mundi
Взор потревожит: в песках пустыни
Лев с головой человека и взглядом
Безжалостным и пустым, как солнце,
Поводит бедрами, и на склонах
Мечутся тени разгневанных птиц.
Возвращается мрак; но теперь я знаю,
Что каменный сон двадцати столетий
Был прерван качанием колыбели,
Что ныне зверь, дождавшийся часа,
Ползет в Вифлеем к своему рождеству.
Перевод А. Сергеева

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when whit moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I drooped a berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on a floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Though hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.