Ирландский поэтарх

Уильям Йейтс

Лишь слогу русскому дано величие.Какой еще язык искусно может сочетатьгармонию любви и перепевов птичьих,красиво и созвучно описать!

Are you content?

I CALL on those that call me son,

Grandson, or great-grandson,

On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,

To judge what I have done.

Have I, that put it into words,

Spoilt what old loins have sent?

Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,

I cannot, but I am not content.

He that in Sligo at Drumcliff

Set up the old stone Cross,

That red-headed rector in County Down,

A good man on a horse,

Sandymount Corbets, that notable man

Old William Pollexfen,

The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,

Half legendary men.

Infirm and aged I might stay

In some good company,

I who have always hated work,

Smiling at the sea,

Or demonstrate in my own life

What Robert Browning meant

By an old hunter talking with Gods;

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