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

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These now outworn and withered hands


Wrestled among the island bands.


O patrick! for a hundred years


We went a-fishing in long boats


With bending sterns and bending bows,


And carven figures on their prows


Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.


O patrick! for a hundred years


The gentle Niamh was my wife;


But now two things devour my life;


The things that most of all I hate:


Fasting and prayers.


S. Patrick. Tell on.


Oisin. Yes, yes,


For these were ancient Oisin's fate


Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,


For his last days to lie in wait.


When one day by the tide I stood,


I found in that forgetfulness


Of dreamy foam a staff of wood


From some dead warrior's broken lance:


I tutned it in my hands; the stains


Of war were on it, and I wept,


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.
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