Текст оригинала на английском языке
Now that the day is done, now that the night creeps soft and dims the chestnut clusters’ radiant spike of flower, O sweet, till dawn break through the branches of our orchard-garden, rest in this shelter of the osier-wood and thorn. They fall, the apple-flowers; nor softer grace has Aphrodite in the heaven afar, nor at so fair a pace open the flower-petals as your face bends down, while, breath on breath, your mouth wanders from my mouth o’er my face. What have I left to bring you in this place, already sweet with violets? (those you brought with swathes of earliest grass, forest and meadow balm, flung from your giant arms for us to rest upon.) Fair are these petals broken by your feet; your horse’s hooves tread softer than a deer’s; your eyes, startled, are like the deer eyes while your heart trembles more than the deer. O earth, O god, O forest, stream or river, what shall I bring that all the day hold back, that Dawn remember Love and rest upon her bed, and Zeus, forgetful not of Danæ or Maia, bid the stars shine forever.
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