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

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But now the moon like a white rose shone

In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,

And clouds atrayed their rank on rank

About his fading crimson ball:

The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall

Was not more level than the sea,

As, full of loving fantasy,

And with low murmurs, we rode on,

Where many a trumpet-twisted shell

That in immortal silence sleeps

Dreaming of her own melting hues,

Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,

Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.

But now a wandering land breeze came

And a far sound of feathery quires;

It seemed to blow from the dying flame,

They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.

The horse towards the music raced,

Neighing along the lifeless waste;

Like sooty fingers, many a tree

Rose ever out of the warm sea;

And they were trembling ceaselessly,

As though they all were beating time,

Upon the centre of the sun,

To that low laughing woodland rhyme.

And, now our wandering hours were done,

We cantered to the shore, and knew

The reason of the trembling trees:

Round every branch the



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