Текст оригинала на английском языке
The Old Burying-Ground
PLUMED ranks of tall wild-cherry And birch surround The half-hid, solitary Old burying-ground. All the low wall is crumbled And overgrown, And in the turf lies tumbled, Stone upon stone. Only the school-boy, scrambling After his arrow Or lost ball,—searching, trampling The tufts of yarrow, Of milkweed and slim mullein,— The place disturbs; Or bowed wise-woman, culling Her magic herbs. No more the melancholy Dark trains draw near; The dead possess it wholly This many a year. The head-stones lean, winds whistle, The long grass waves, Rank grow the dock and thistle Over the graves; And all is waste, deserted, And drear, as though Even the ghosts departed Long years ago! The squirrels start forth and chatter To see me pass; Grasshoppers leap and patter In the dry grass. I hear the drowsy drumming Of woodpeckers, And suddenly at my coming The quick grouse whirs. Untouched through all mutation Of times and skies, A by-gone generation Around me lies: Of high and low condition, Just and unjust, The patient and physician, All turned to dust. Suns, snows, drought, cold, birds, blossoms, Visit the spot; Rains drench the quiet bosoms, Which heed them not. Under an aged willow, The earth my bed, A mossy mound my pillow, I lean my head. Babe of this mother, dying A fresh young bride, That old, old man is lying Here by her side! I muse: above me hovers A haze of dreams: Bright maids and laughing lovers, Life's morning gleams; The past with all its passions, Its toils and wiles; Its ancient follies, fashions, And tears and smiles; With thirsts and fever-rages, And ceaseless pains, Hoarding as for the ages Its little gains! Fair lives that bloom and wither, Their summer done; Loved forms with heart-break hither Borne one by one. Wife, husband, child and mother, Now reck no more Which mourned on earth the other, Or went before. The soul, risen from its embers, In its blest state Perchance not even remembers Its earthly fate; Nor heeds, in the duration Of spheres sublime, This pebble of creation, This wave of time. For a swift moment only Such dreams arise; Then, turning from this lonely, Tossed field, my eyes Through clumps of whortleberry And brier look down Toward yonder cemetery, And modern town, Where still men build, and marry, And strive, and mourn, And now the dark pall carry, And now are borne.
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