Джон Китс. Старуха Мэг, цыганка...

Старуха Мэг, цыганка,
В глуши лесной жила,
И домом торфяная топь
И ложем ей была.

Роскошным садом мнились ей
Черники два куста,
Вином – роса, а книгою –
Могильная плита.

Был братом ей высокий холм,
Сосна – сестрой родной,
И Мэг семьи или судьбы
Не жаждала иной.

Порой на завтрак – ничего,
Ни крошки – на обед,
А вместо ужина не хлеб –
Луны взошедшей свет.

Но утро свежестью своей
Касалось лишь лица –
Старуха резала тростник
И пела без конца.

Плела она из тростника
циновки каждый день
И продавала жителям
Окрестных деревень.

Как амазонка, рослою
Седая Мэг была,
Носила ветхий красный плащ,
В нем ела и спала.
Да вот прибрал её Господь –
Давно уж померла!

John KEATS (1795 – 1821)
OLD MEG SHE WAS A GIPSY
Old Meg she was a gipsy,
And lived upon the moors,
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o’ broom,
Her wine was dew o’ the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees –
Alone with great family
She lived as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And ‘stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited mats o’ rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon,
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
A clip-hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere –
She died full long agone!