Джон Китс (John Keats)

* * *

Oh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
  When streams of light pour down the golden west,
  And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, -- far, far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
  From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
  A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
  Musing on Milton's fate -- on Sydney's bier --
    Till their stern forms before my mind arise:
Perhaps on the wing of Poesy upsoar,
  Full often dropping a delicious tear,
    When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

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