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

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There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race


Under the golden or the silver skies;


That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot


It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:


And at that singing he was no more wise.




He mused beside the well of Scanavin,


He mused upon his mockers: without fail


His sudden vengeance were a country tale,


When earthy night had drunk his body in;


But one small knot-grass growing by the pool


Sang where — unnecessary cruel voice -


Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,


Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall


Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,


And midnight there enfold them like a fleece


And lover there by lover be at peace.


The tale drove his fine angry mood away.




He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;


And might have known at last unhaunted sleep


Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,


Now that the earth had taken man and all:


Did not the worms that spired about his bones


Proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry


That God has laid His fingers on the sky,


That from those fingers glittering summer runs


Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.


Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
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