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

Yet now I choose, for these four feet

Ran through the foam and ran to this

That I might have your son to kiss.'

'Were there no better than my son

That you through all that foam should run?'

'I loved no man, though kings besought,

Until the Danaan poets brought

Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,

And now I am dizzy with the thought

Of all that wisdom and the fame

Of battles broken by his hands,

Of stories builded by his words

That are like coloured Asian birds

At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,

There was no limb of mine but fell

Into a desperate gulph of love!

'You only will I wed,' I cried,

'And I will make a thousand songs,

And set your name all names above,

And captives bound with leathern thongs

Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,

At evening in my western dun.'

'O Oisin, mount by me and ride

To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,

Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,

And the days pass by like a wayward tune,

Where broken faith has never been known

And the blushes of first love never have flown;

And there I will give you a hundred hounds;

No mightier creatures bay at the moon;

And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,

And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep

Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,

And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,

And oil and wine and honey and milk,

And always never-anxious sleep;

While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,

But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,

And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,

Who when they dance to a fitful measure

Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,

Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,

And you shall know the Danaan leisure;

And Niamh be with you for a wife.'

Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late.

Music and love and sleep await,

Where I would be when the white moon