Р. Фрост. Жатва

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound -
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
          

 ЖАТВА

Скрип  дерева  и  шелестящий  звук
Моей  косы,  летящий  над  землёй…
Что  он  шептал?    Молчало  всё  вокруг
Лишь  -  шших -
          порой  вплеталось   в  летний  зной.

Прошелестев  растаял  в  тишине
Как  шопот.
         Неуместен  громкий  глас
В  послеобеденный  златой  дремотный  час,
На  крыльях  фей  спустившийся  ко  мне.

Нет  истины  прекрасней  чем  любовь,
Придёт  строкой - и  ей  не  прекословь;
В  ней  дОроги  шипы  и  цвет  камей,
И  залетевший  в  сон  зелёный  змей.

Коса  пропела  сказку  наяву
И  улетела  в  сон  косить  траву.