Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения

Г. Кружков

‘ASK ME NO MORE’

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But О too fond, when have I answer’d thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, О my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

«НЕ СПРАШИВАЙ»

Не спрашивай; луна взманит волну,
Иль облака под ветром примут вид
Каких-то замков или пирамид;
Я этих пылких взоров не верну:
Не спрашивай меня.

Ты хочешь знать, что я тебе скажу?
Мне скучны эти лепеты любви;
И все-таки — не умирай, живи!
Признаться ли? — я за тебя дрожу:
Не спрашивай меня.

Не спрашивай, мой друг: твоя судьба,
Мою судьбу, как нить, переплела;
Против теченья тщетно я плыла.
О мой любимый, как душа слаба!
Не спрашивай меня.

Г. Кружков

‘COME DOWN, О MAID’

Come down, О maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang)
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.