Йейтс Уильям Батлер
«Стихи. (В переводах разных авторов)»

Remembering how the Fenians stept

Along the blood-bedabbled plains,

Equal to good or grievous chance:

Thereon young Niamh softly came

And caught my hands, but spake no word

Save only many times my name,

In murmurs, like a frighted bird.

We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,

And found the horse and bridled him,

For we knew well the old was over.

I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dim

With all the ancient sorrow of men';

And wrapped in dreams rode out again

With hoofs of the pale findrinny

Over the glimmering purple sea.

Under the golden evening light,

The Immortals moved among thc fountains

By rivers and the woods' old night;

Some danced like shadows on the mountains

Some wandered ever hand in hand;

Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,

Each forehead like an obscure star

Bent down above each hooked knee,

And sang, and with a dreamy gaze

Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze

Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;

And, as they sang, the painted birds

Kept time with their bright wings and feet;

Like drops of honey came their words,

But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,

In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.

He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,

Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;

He hears the storm in the chimney above,

And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,

While his heart still dreams of battle and love,

And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,

Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,

Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,

Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.

The hare grows old as she plays in the sun

And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;

Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done

She limps along in an aged whiteness;

A storm of birds