Dylan Thomas

Не уходи покорно в сумрак ночи!
Пылает пусть в закате дня
Хромая старость и пророчит
Золу, что следствие огня.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death

Say nay,
Man dry man,
Dry lover
The deadrock base and blow the flowered anchor,

i W h oA r e  y o
Who   is
In   the   next
So   loud    to   my

Sometimes the sky's too bright,
Or has too many clouds or birds,
And far away's too sharp a
To nourish thinking of him

In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea  Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks  And palavers of
This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave  He celebrates and

Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon,
Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone,
But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle;
Master the night nor serve the snowman's

This day winding down
At God speeded summer's
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken

I have longed to move
From the hissing of the spent
And the old terrors' continual
Growing more terrible as the

Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,

Now as I was young and easy under the apple
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and