Томас Гарди (Харди) (Thomas Hardy) Текст оригинала на английском языке A Wet August Nine drops of water bead the jessamine, And nine-and-ninety smear the stones and tiles: – ’Twas not so in that August – full-rayed, fine – When we lived out-of-doors, sang songs, strode miles. Or was there then no noted radiancy Of summer? Were dun clouds, a dribbling bough, Gilt over by the light I bore in me, And was the waste world just the same as now? It can have been so: yea, that threatenings Of coming down-drip on the sunless gray, By the then golden chances seen in things Were wrought more bright than brightest skies to-day. 1920 |
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