Стихи и рассказы в категории Nature. Читать онлайн

Я помню медитацию у моря,
Рассвет - такой сияющий и дивный,
И не было опасности и горя,
Весною пахли небеса и клинья

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

Она нужна для того, чтобы
Мы больше видели
И были менее импульсивными.

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

Город - световое полотно,
Город - зарево и город-даль,
Чистый, как прозрачное стекло,
Горький, как таинственный миндаль.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Розтягни ніч, ніби лакрицю,
Ирій від мене не ховай,
Місто, над яким летимо, насниться,
МИлістю проливаючи водограй.

All the loud winds were in the garden wood,
All shadows joyfuller than lissom
Doubled in chasing, all exultant
That ever flung fierce mist and eddying

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

There are some hours when I seem so indifferent; all things
To an indifferent greyness, like that grey of the sky;
Always at evening-ends, on grey days; and I know not why,
But life, and art, and love, and death, are the shade of a…

scent of plum blossomson the misty mountain patha big rising sun

Безіменність, барикади снігу,
Тиша - і холодна, і пуста,
Ви ввійшли тепер у вищу лігу -
Північчю збудовані міста.

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

Turn your head.
Look.
The light is turning yellow.
The river seems enriched thereby, not to say deepened.

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis

Palacio, good friend,
is springalready dressing branches of the black poplarsby the river and the roads?
On the steppeby the deep Duero, spring is late,
yet so lovely and soft when it comes!

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain, — Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;

It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses— We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
That churlish season never frown’d On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown’d With flowers when first we met!’Twas…

AS a bright May morn, and each opening flower Lay sunning itself in Flora's bower;
Young Love, who was fluttering round, espied The blossoms so gay in their painted pride;
And he gazed on the point of a feathered dart,
For mischief…

RD
HA, on thy Lotus-throne,
With praying eyes and hands elate,
What mystic rapture dost thou own,

My books I'd fain cast off,
I cannot read, 'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, And will not mind to hit their proper target.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, Our…

I
AS a laughing child, and gaily
Where murmuring brooks, and dark blue rivers roll'd,
And shadowy trees outspread their silent arms,