Красивы небо и земля,

Однако не совсем.

Видал и покрасивей я,

И чище между тем!

Как эти кроны зелены,

Как ясен небосвод,

Когда они отражены

В зерцале тихих вод!

Как бы платоновских идей

Загробный чистый мир,

В прохладной смоются воде

И пыль, и вонь, и жир!

Нырнуть бы в эти облака

И кануть без следа…

Но там я вижу дурака,

Он просится – сюда!

In summertime on Bredon

The bells they sound so clear;

Round both the shires the ring them

In steeples far and near,

A happy noise to hear.

Here of a Sunday morning

My love and I would lie,

And see the coloured counties,

And hear the larks so high

About us in the sky.

The bells would ring to call her

In valleys miles away:

'Come all to church, good people;

Good people, come and pray.

But here my love would stay.

And I would turn and answer

Among the springing thyme,

'Oh, peal upon our wedding,

And we will hear the chime,

And come to church in time.

But when the snows at Christmas

On Bredon top were strown,

My love rose up so early

And stole out unbeknown

And went to church alone.

They tolled the one bell only,

Groom there was none to see,

The mourners followed after,

And so to church went she,

And would not wait for me.

The bells they sound on Bredon

And still the steeples hum.

'Come all to church, good people, —

Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;

I hear you, I will come.

С вершины Бридон-Хилла

Слышны колокола.

Со всех церквей окрестных,

Из каждого села —

Тебе, Господь, хвала!

Но я с подругой милой

Взошел не для того

На этот холм, заросший

Медвяною травой,

Чтоб глас услышать Твой!

Колокола взывали

К безумным юным нам:

«Приидите, миряне,

Приидите во храм!»

Но мы остались там.

И я смеясь ответил:

«Что нам во храме том?

Звоните к нашей свадьбе —

За свадебку мирком.

Мы раньше не придем!»

Но раньше, много раньше

Она во храм пришла.

Над Бридон-Хиллом стыла

Рождественская мгла.

И выла, и мела.

И колокол ударил,

И был обряд свершен,

Но был моей невесте

Не слышен тяжкий звон —

Усопших крепок сон.

И вновь над Бридон-Хиллом

Сияет синева,

И снова зеленеет

Медвяная трава.

И благовест взывает:

«Прийди! Она жива!»

The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,

And out we troop to see:

A single redcoat turns his head,

He turns and looks at me.

My man, from sky to sky's so far,

We never crossed before;

Such leagues apart the world's ends are,

We're like to meet no more;

What thoughts at heart have you and I

We cannot stop to tell;

But dead or living, drunk or dry,

Soldier, I wish you well.

Ну почему не Честертон,

Не Донн, не Вальтер Скотт?!

С какого перепугу он

К себе меня влечет?

На кой мне этот пессимизм,

И плоский стоицизм,

И извращенный эротизм,

И жалкий атеизм?

Зачем же про себя и вслух

Я эти песни пел?..

О, где б ты ни был, бедный дух,

Professor, I wish you well.

The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come

in for the fair,

There's men from the barn and the forge

and the mill and the fold,

The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor

are there,

And there with the rest are the lads that will

never be old.

There's chaps from the town and the field and

the till and the cart,

And many to count are the stalwart, and many

the brave,

And many the handsome of face and the handsome

of heart,

And few that will carry their looks or their

truth to the grave.

I wish one could know them, I wish there were

tokens to tell

The fortunate fellows that now you can

never discern;

And then one could talk with them friendly and

wish them farewell

And watch them depart on the way that they

will not return.

But now you may stare as you like and there's

nothing to scan;

And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and

not to be told

They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage

of man,

The lads that will die in their glory and never

be old.