Всегда одно и то же судит ночь -
Ей лишь бы снегу белому помочь,
В лесах глухих со свистом, может быть,
Зима свою показывала прыть,
Шипеть и выть, но греет интерес.
Я, чуть не спотыкаюсь, глядя в лес,
Наверно, до того ускорил ход,
Бегу и жду какой-нибудь исход,
Того, сего, - забыл свои дела,
Триумф, победа – зла или добра,-
Неважно, жизнь как будто не была.
Случалось прежде в нашей стороне:
Зима – не смерть и мы не на войне
Земли со снегом, и не мир иной -
Сугроб в четыре фута глубиной,
Его промерят клён, берёза, дуб,
Проверят серебро куда кладут;
Спускаясь по холму, увижу я
Рождение апрельского ручья,
На склоне разогретом и пустом,
Как змейка, под травой вильнёт хвостом.
Не будет ничего белей берёз,
Не в счёт в домах и храмах, но всерьёз.
Возникновение
© Copyright: Роберт Ли Фрост, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114010804086
Свидетельство о публикации №114010804086
Рецензии
The Onset
Always the same, when on a fated night
At last the gathered snow lets down as white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
I almost stumble looking up and round,
As one who overtaken by the end
Gives up his errand, and lets death descend
Upon him where he is, with nothing done
To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.
Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured again maple, birch, and oak,
It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go down hill
In water of a slender April rill
That flashes tail through last year's withered brake
And dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.
Nothing will be left white but here a birch,
And there a clump of houses with a church.
Роберт Ли Фрост 08.01.2014 11:34 • Заявить о нарушении
Always the same, when on a fated night
At last the gathered snow lets down as white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
I almost stumble looking up and round,
As one who overtaken by the end
Gives up his errand, and lets death descend
Upon him where he is, with nothing done
To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.
Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured again maple, birch, and oak,
It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go down hill
In water of a slender April rill
That flashes tail through last year's withered brake
And dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.
Nothing will be left white but here a birch,
And there a clump of houses with a church.
Роберт Ли Фрост 08.01.2014 11:34 • Заявить о нарушении