Пушкин стихи осень на английском
Обновлено: 05.07.2024
перевод на Английский Английский (metered, poetic, rhyming)
Autumn
Already 'tis October now, already how the trees
Are shaking from each naked bough the last leaves lingering still.
The breath of Autumn's chill is met, the road begins to freeze,
The murmuring stream is murmuring yet while running by the mill.
But o'er the pond the ice extends; my eager neighbour flees
To farway fields to meet with friends who ply the huntsman's skill.
And winter crops again shall ache at these men's savage joys
And sleepy groves be kept awake by the hounds' latrant voice.
This is my season, verily; the spring ne'er wins my love,
Whose muddy thaw - far from my glee - and stench quite sicken me,
The stirring blood, the passions' tide, tied to such push and shove.
O, I'm much better satisfied with winter's cruelty.
The snow beneath the moon's soft ray I cannot love enough,
Beside a sweetheart in a sleigh to ride adventurously;
When 'neath the sable, rosy warm, she feels a thrill profuse,
A-shivering, burning at your arm her grip dares not let loose.
With feet shod in sharp ironed skates a joy it is to go
Gliding upon the mirror-face of the smooth, solid stream.
And what about the winter feasts with bustle all aglow?
But one must know one's boundaries, the den-dweller a-dream,
The bear, at length, shall tire and sigh with half a year of snow!
We cannot pass the ages by in riding, so things seem,
With young Armidas in a sleigh or by the stove delay'n'
Beguile our precious time away behind the double pane.
O darling summer with much lust I would have loved you too
If it weren't for your heat and dust, mosquitoes-swarms and flies;
You kill our mental energy, torment us through and through.
Like fields, we suffer desperately a drought in sorry sighs,
To cool ourselves with drinks all day, refresh ourselves anew
Is all we think, and longing wait to see dame Winter's eyes.
And after giving her goodbyes with wine and pancakes gold
Her funeral with icecream and ice devotedly we hold.
People predictably complain 'bout Autumn's latter days
But I, dear reader, am full fain to know her charm, indeed,
Her beauty in its quiet art, her tranquil glow and grace.
E'en as a child whose hungry heart, his family fails to feed
With love, moves me and draws mine near, so truly I embrace,
And give her, best of all the year, my heart's adoring heed.
I as her lover in my mind not vain but humbly deem
Her full of worth and in her find the magic of a dream.
How can it rightly be conveyed? She pleases me e'en as
Sometime, some weak consumptive maid may draw you in her ways,
Who doomed to such a sorry state, whose life is soon to pass,
Poor thing, not grumbling, not with hate, accepts it all with grace.
On withered lips, a smile yet draws, upon that dauntless lass
Sensing not yet the gaping jaws of death she must needs face.
Still on her visage plays a hue of red you can't ignore
She is alive today with you, tomorrow she's no more.
A saddening season! So enchanting to the sight!
To me her beauty is so pleasing with all its cooling fire.
I love indeed the glorious mood of nature's dying light,
The special aspect of the wood in gold and red attire.
The wind within the entry hall, its loud, new ghostly might.
The waves of mist that over all the heavens' face transpire.
In rarity the sun's warm ray, the frost approaching fast,
The threat of winter old and gray from far, then near at last.
And with each Autumn comes to me a time to bloom anew,
The Russian chill, a remedy, my health such vigor brings
I fall in love again, it seems, with life and life's to-do,
Now in the soaring of sweet dreams, now in strange hungerings,
My blood, through all my heart with ease, is flowing free and true
With youth, with lust again I seethe and mirth within me springs.
I'm filled once more with liveliness, such is my organism
(I beg you, please, to pardon this unneeded prosaism.)
Hither to me is brought my steed. In open fields it fares
With waving mane, with gathered speed, conveys its rider so
A ringing neath his shimmering hooves the frozen valley bears,
Dinsomely where his movement shoves, with crackling frost below.
But the brief day so soon is spent; new fire the evening shares
In the forgotten stove again, the brilliant blaze and glow
That smoulders slowly while before 't I read, or when my mind
Its thoughts and fancies long adored shall seek again and find.
Herewith the world I soon forget, herewith in silence sweet,
I can be cradled, comforted, by my imagination.
The waking in my heart, the charms of poetry I meet
The passion of my spirit storms with lyric agitation.
It trembles, moans from every part, tries as from sleep to free 't,
To pour it fully from the heart, an unrestrained creation.
Here come in all their swarmful streams, surprising every sense,
The fruit of all my favorite dreams, my longbeloved friends.
Thoughts stir like waves tumultuously in surges through my head
And easy rhymes come eagerly to give them company.
The fingers to the quill, the quill to paper now is set.
A minute, and the verses spill and flow most liberally.
E'en as a stirless ship rests on a stirless, liquid bed,
Then look! The sailors thrusting come, in haste, in urgency
Crawl up, now down. The sails are fed with winds' inspiring grace.
Hence the great vessel moves ahead and cuts the watery ways.
It sails. But where are we to sail? .
This is a poetic translation - deviations from the meaning of the original are present (extra words, extra or omitted information, substituted concepts).
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Aleksandr Pushkin: Топ 3
Комментарии
пт, 14/05/2021 - 18:39
Браво! Серьезный труд!
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О переводчике
Имя: Kevin Rainbow
Роль: Super Member
Языки: родной Английский, свободно Русский, изучал(а) Арабский, Английский (Среднеанглийский), Английский (Древнеанглийский), Французский, Немецкий, Греческий, Иврит, Латинский, Русский, Украинский
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