Придите ко мне, дети!
Поскольку я слышу вас в вашей игре,
И вопросы, которые озадачили меня
Они совсем исчезли.
Вы открываете восточные окна,
Этот взгляд на солнце,
Где мысли поют ласточки
И ручьи утреннего пробега.
В ваших сердцах птицы и солнце,
По твоим мыслям поток ручья,
Но у меня ветер Осени
И первое падение снега.
Ах! что бы мир был для нас
Если детей больше нет?
Мы должны бояться пустыни за нами
Хуже, чем темноты.
Что листья в лесу,
Со светом и воздухом для питания,
Их сладкие и нежные соки
Закалены в древесине, -
Что в мире есть дети;
Через них чувствуется свечение
Для более яркого и солнечного климата
Чем доходит до стволов.
Придите ко мне, дети!
И шепните мне на ухо
Что поют птицы и ветры
В вашей солнечной атмосфере.
Для чего все наши ухищрения,
И мудрость наших книг,
По сравнению с вашими ласками,
И радостью вашей внешности?
Вы лучше всех баллад,
Когда-либо было исполненых или сказаных;
Ибо вы живые стихи,
А все остальные мертвы.
Придите ко мне, дети!
© Copyright: Генри Лонгфелло, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118032504640
Свидетельство о публикации №118032504640
Рецензии
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
Генри Лонгфелло 25.03.2018 11:42 • Заявить о нарушении
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
Генри Лонгфелло 25.03.2018 11:42 • Заявить о нарушении