Лучшие стихи Оскара Уайльда на английском языке

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Лучшие стихи Оскара Уайльда на английском языке

Стихи Оскара Уайльда на английском языке

Impression du Matin( Перевод на русский )
Libertatis Sacra Fames( Перевод на русский )
Quantum Mutata
The Grave of Shelley
Vita Nuova( Перевод на русский )
Quia Multum amavi( Перевод на русский )
Ave Imperatrix

Impression du Matin

THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold  
  Changed to a Harmony in grey:  
  A barge with ochre-coloured hay  
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold  
The yellow fog came creeping down          5
  The bridges, till the houses’ walls  
  Seemed changed to shadows, and S. Paul’s  
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.  
Then suddenly arose the clang  
  Of waking life; the streets were stirred   10
  With country waggons: and a bird  
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.  
But one pale woman all alone,  
  The daylight kissing her wan hair,  
  Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,   15
With lips of flame and heart of stone.  

Libertatis Sacra Fames

ALBEIT nurtured in democracy,  
  And liking best that state republican  
  Where every man is Kinglike and no man  
Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,  
Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,          5
  Better the rule of One, whom all obey,  
  Than to let clamorous demagogues betray  
Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.  
Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane  
  Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street   10
  For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign  
Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,  
  Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,  
  And Murder with his silent bloody feet.

Quantum Mutata

THERE was a time in Europe long ago  
  When no man died for freedom anywhere,  
  But England’s lion leaping from its lair  
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so  
While England could a great Republic show.          5
  Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care  
  Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair  
The Pontiff in his painted portico  
Trembled before our stern ambassadors.  
  How comes it then that from such high estate   10
  We have thus fallen, save that Luxury  
With barren merchandise piles up the gate  
Where nobler thoughts and deeds should enter by:  
  Else might we still be Milton’s heritors.


TREAD lightly, she is near  
  Under the snow,  
Speak gently, she can hear  
  The daisies grow.  
All her bright golden hair          5
  Tarnished with rust,  
She that was young and fair  
  Fallen to dust.  
Lily-like, white as snow,  
  She hardly knew   10
She was a woman, so  
  Sweetly she grew.  
Coffin-board, heavy stone,  
  Lie on her breast,  
I vex my heart alone   15
  She is at rest.  
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear  
  Lyre or sonnet,  
All my life’s buried here,  
  Heap earth upon it.



THIS mighty empire hath but feet of clay:  
  Of all its ancient chivalry and might  
  Our little island is forsaken quite:  
Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,  
And from its hills that voice hath passed away          5
  Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,  
  Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit  
For this vile traffic-house, where day by day  
  Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,  
  And the rude people rage with ignorant cries   10
Against an heritage of centuries.  
  It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art  
  And loftiest culture I would stand apart,  
Neither for God, nor for his enemies.  

The Grave of Shelley

LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed  
  Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;  
  Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,  
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.  
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,          5
  In the still chamber of yon pyramid  
  Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,  
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.  
Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb  
  Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,   10
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb  
  In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,  
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom  
  Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.


Vita Nuova

STOOD by the unvintageable sea  
  Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,  
  The long red fires of the dying day  
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;  
And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:          5
  “Alas!” I cried, “my life is full of pain,  
  And who can garner fruit or golden grain,  
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!”  
  My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw  
  Nathless I threw them as my final cast   10
  Into the sea, and waited for the end.  
When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw  
  The argent splendour of white limbs ascend,  
  And in that joy forgot my tortured past.  

Quia Multum amavi

DEAR Heart I think the young impassioned priest  
  When first he takes from out the hidden shrine  
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,  
  And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,  
Feels not such awful wonder as I felt          5
  When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,  
And all night long before thy feet I knelt  
  Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.  
Ah! had’st thou liked me less and loved me more,  
  Through all those summer days of joy and rain,   10
I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,  
  Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.  
Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal  
  Tread on my heels with all his retinue,  
I am most glad I loved thee—think of all   15
  The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!  

Ave Imperatrix

SET in this stormy Northern sea,  
  Queen of these restless fields of tide,  
England! what shall men say of thee,  
  Before whose feet the worlds divide?  
The earth, a brittle globe of glass,          5
  Lies in the hollow of thy hand,  
And through its heart of crystal pass,  
  Like shadows through a twilight land,  
The spears of crimson-suited war,  
  The long white-crested waves of fight,   10
And all the deadly fires which are  
  The torches of the lords of Night.  
The yellow leopards, strained and lean,  
  The treacherous Russian knows so well,  
With gaping blackened jaws are seen   15
  Leap through the hail of screaming shell.  
The strong sea-lion of England’s wars  
  Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,  
To battle with the storm that mars  
  The star of England’s chivalry.   20
The brazen-throated clarion blows  
  Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,  
And the high steeps of Indian snows  
  Shake to the tread of armèd men.  
And many an Afghan chief, who lies   25
  Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,  
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise  
  When on the mountain-side he sees  
The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes  
  To tell how he hath heard afar   30
The measured roll of English drums  
  Beat at the gates of Kandahar.  
For southern wind and east wind meet  
  Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,  
England with bare and bloody feet   35
  Climbs the steep road of wide empire.  
O lonely Himalayan height,  
  Grey pillar of the Indian sky,  
Where saw’st thou last in clanging fight  
  Our wingèd dogs of Victory?   40
The almond groves of Samarcand,  
  Bokhara, where red lilies blow,  
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand  
  The grave white-turbaned merchants go:  
And on from thence to Ispahan,   45
  The gilded garden of the sun,  
Whence the long dusty caravan  
  Brings cedar and vermilion;  
And that dread city of Cabool  
  Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet,   50
Whose marble tanks are ever full  
With water for the noonday heat:  
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar  
  A little maid Circassian  
Is led, a present from the Czar   55
  Unto some old and bearded khan,—  
Here have our wild war-eagles flown,  
  And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;  
But the sad dove, that sits alone  
  In England—she hath no delight.   60
In vain the laughing girl will lean  
  To greet her love with love-lit eyes:  
Down in some treacherous black ravine,  
  Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.  
And many a moon and sun will see   65
  The lingering wistful children wait  
To climb upon their father’s knee;  
  And in each house made desolate  
Pale women who have lost their lord  
  Will kiss the relics of the slain—   70
Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—  
  Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.  
For not in quiet English fields  
  Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,  
Where we might deck their broken shields   75
  With all the flowers the dead love best.  
For some are by the Delhi walls,  
  And many in the Afghan land,  
And many where the Ganges falls  
  Through seven mouths of shifting sand.   80
And some in Russian waters lie,  
  And others in the seas which are  
The portals to the East, or by  
  The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.  
O wandering graves! O restless sleep!   85
  O silence of the sunless day!  
O still ravine! O stormy deep!  
  Give up your prey! Give up your prey!  
And thou whose wounds are never healed,  
  Whose weary race is never won,   90
O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield  
  For every inch of ground a son?  
Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,  
  Change thy glad song to song of pain;  
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,   95
  And will not yield them back again.  
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore  
  Possess the flower of English land—  
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,  
  Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.  100
What profit now that we have bound  
  The whole round world with nets of gold,  
If hidden in our heart is found  
  The care that groweth never old?  
What profit that our galleys ride,  105
  Pine-forest-like, on every main?  
Ruin and wreck are at our side,  
  Grim warders of the House of pain.  
Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?  
  Where is our English chivalry?  110
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,  
  And sobbing waves their threnody.  
O loved ones lying far away,  
  What word of love can dead lips send!  
O wasted dust! O senseless clay!  115
  Is this the end! is this the end!  
Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead  
  To vex their solemn slumber so;  
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,  
  Up the steep road must England go,  120
Yet when this fiery web is spun,  
  Her watchmen shall descry from far  
The young Republic like a sun  
  Rise from these crimson seas of war.

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