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Любимые рифмы.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Понедельник, 05.03.2012, 14:36 | Сообщение # 16 |
 Живое Слово
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| Walt Whitman
“On the beach at night alone...”
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of
the universes and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons,
planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in
different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the
brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities I hat have existed or may exist on this globe, or any
globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose
them.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Вторник, 20.03.2012, 17:00 | Сообщение # 17 |
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Живое Слово
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| "Весна идёт, весна идёт!"
Алексей Плещеев
ВЕСНА
Уж тает снег, бегут ручьи,
В окно повеяло весною...
Засвищут скоро соловьи,
И лес оденется листвою!
Чиста небесная лазурь,
Теплей и ярче солнце стало,
Пора метелей злых и бурь
Опять надолго миновала.
И сердце сильно так в груди
Стучит, как будто ждет чего-то,
Как будто счастье впереди
И унесла зима заботы!
Все лица весело глядят.
"Весна!"- читаешь в каждом взоре;
И тот, как празднику, ей рад,
Чья жизнь - лишь тяжкий труд и горе.
Но резвых деток звонкий смех
И беззаботных птичек пенье
Мне говорят - кто больше всех
Природы любит обновленье!
William Blake
TO SPRING
О thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, О Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the list'ning
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
О deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| RulleVoy | Дата: Вторник, 20.03.2012, 18:42 | Сообщение # 18 |
 Собеседник Века
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| Не рифмы, но слоганы
http://mi3ch.livejournal.com/2056705.html
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| Lizzy | Дата: Воскресенье, 25.03.2012, 18:51 | Сообщение # 19 |
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Живое Слово
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The Blue-Bird
By Alexander Wilson
WHEN winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows and brown-furrowed fields reappearing,
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the Lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing;
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together:
Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair!
Your walks border up; sow and plant at your leisure;
The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.
He flits through the orchards, he visits each tree,
The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn he devours,
The worm from their webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow-lingering schoolboys forget they ’ll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before ’em
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er,
And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers, that charmed us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow,
The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,
Or love’s native music, have influence to charm,
Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings is given,
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be;
His voice like the thrillings of hope is a treasure;
For, through bleakest storms if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Воскресенье, 10.06.2012, 11:51 | Сообщение # 20 |
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Живое Слово
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The Poet’s Calendar: 06 - June
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
The mower’s scythe makes music to my ear;
I am the mother of all dear delights;
I am the fairest daughter of the year.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Воскресенье, 10.06.2012, 12:00 | Сообщение # 21 |
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Живое Слово
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| June (1895)
by Guy Wetmore Carryl
Lightsome, laughter-loving June,
Days that swoon
In beds of flowers;
Twilights dipped in rose perfume,
Nights of gloom
Washed clear by showers.
Suns that softly sink to rest
In the west,
All purple barred;
And a faint night-wind that sighs
Under skies
Still, silver-starred.
Languorous breaths of meadow land
Overspanned
By clouds like snow;
And a shouting from the brooks,
Where in nooks
Late violets grow.
June, ah, June, to lie and dream
By the stream,
And in the maze
Of thy spells never to heed—
How they speed,
Thy witching days;
Watching where the shadows pass.
And the grass
All rustling bends,
While the bees fly east and west,
On a quest
That never ends.
Thus to shun the whirl of life,
Freed from strife
And freed from care—
Hear, as when a lad I heard
How the bird
Sings, high in air.
June, to hear beneath the skies
Lullabies
That night airs blow;
Ah, to find upon thy breast
That pure rest
I used to know!
New York, 1895.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Воскресенье, 10.06.2012, 12:04 | Сообщение # 22 |
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Живое Слово
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| June
by James Russell Lowell
What is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green.
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Nushe4ka | Дата: Понедельник, 11.06.2012, 09:38 | Сообщение # 23 |
 Молчун
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| Я не могу вставить картинку, так что дам ссылку: http://nushe4ka.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d4j9e9u
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| Silk-Wire | Дата: Понедельник, 11.06.2012, 13:42 | Сообщение # 24 |
 The Vorpal Blade
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| Nushe4ka, это что-то!  Мое любимое стихотворение и золотом по черному, да каким шрифтом!!! Каллиграфия плюс Кэрролл в сумме дают ЧУДО!
Остальные странички тоже понравились, а посмотрев седьмую, сразу почувствовала себя Алисой в Зазеркалье 
Нет слов, одни восклицания 
Перевожу иероглифы каприкорнов. Недорого.  
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| Nushe4ka | Дата: Вторник, 12.06.2012, 09:19 | Сообщение # 25 |
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Молчун
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| Спасибо 
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| Lizzy | Дата: Понедельник, 08.10.2012, 15:36 | Сообщение # 26 |
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Живое Слово
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Sonnet 147 - a poem by William Shakespeare
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
Сонет 147. Уильям Шекспир
Перевод Самуила Яковлевича Маршака
Любовь - недуг. Моя душа больна
Томительной, неутолимой жаждой.
Того же яда требует она,
Который отравил ее однажды.
Мой разум-врач любовь мою лечил.
Она отвергла травы и коренья,
И бедный лекарь выбился из сил
И нас покинул, потеряв терпенье.
Отныне мой недуг неизлечим.
Душа ни в чем покоя не находит.
Покинутые разумом моим,
И чувства и слова по воле бродят.
И долго мне, лишенному ума,
Казался раем ад, а светом - тьма!
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Вторник, 13.11.2012, 16:33 | Сообщение # 27 |
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Живое Слово
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| Emily Bronte
Love and Friendship
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Суббота, 01.12.2012, 12:14 | Сообщение # 28 |
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Живое Слово
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In Drear-Nighted December
John Keats
In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.
Year's End
Ted Kooser
Now the seasons are closing their files
on each of us, the heavy drawers
full of certificates rolling back
into the tree trunks, a few old papers
flocking away. Someone we loved
has fallen from our thoughts,
making a little, glittering splash
like a bicycle pushed by a breeze.
Otherwise, not much has happened;
we fell in love again, finding
that one red reather on the wind.
I Heard a Bird Sing
Oliver Herford
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.
'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Четверг, 31.01.2013, 23:21 | Сообщение # 29 |
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Живое Слово
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost (1923)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Silk-Wire | Дата: Пятница, 01.02.2013, 21:22 | Сообщение # 30 |
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The Vorpal Blade
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| Глядя на лес снежным вечером
Прервал я санок легких бег,
Любуясь, как ложится снег
На тихий лес,— и так далек
Владеющий им человек.
Мой удивляется конек:
Где увидал я огонек,
Зовущий гостя в теплый дом
В декабрьский темный вечерок;
Позвякивает бубенцом,
Переминаясь надо льдом,
И наста слышен легкий хруст,
Припорошенного снежком.
А лес манит, глубок и пуст.
Но словом данным я влеком:
Мне еще ехать далеко,
Мне еще ехать далеко.
Перевод И. Кашкина
Сразу вспомнилась жемчужина боевой фантастики Дэвида Вебера "Мне еще ехать далеко..." Перечитать, что ли...
Перевожу иероглифы каприкорнов. Недорого.
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