Poems

Rudyard Kipling

IF YOU CAN KEEP YOUR HEAD WHEN ALL ABOUT YOU
Редьярд Киплинг
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: «Hold on!»

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

Источник: http://versos.ru/verso.html?id=245
Автор: Редьярд Киплинг;

Edgar Allan Poe

 From childhood's hour I have not been
 As others were; I have not seen
 As others saw; I could not bring
 My passions from a common spring.
 From the same source I have not taken
 My sorrow; I could not awaken
 My heart to joy at the same tone;
 And all I loved, I loved alone.
 Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
 Of a most stormy life- was drawn
 From every depth of good and ill
 The mystery which binds me still:
 From the torrent, or the fountain,
 From the red cliff of the mountain,
 From the sun that round me rolled
 In its autumn tint of gold,
 From the lightning in the sky
 As it passed me flying by,
 From the thunder and the storm,
 And the cloud that took the form
 (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
 Of a demon in my view.

The Raven

 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
 "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
 Only this, and nothing more."

 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
 Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
 From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
 Nameless here for evermore.

 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
 Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
 "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
 This it is, and nothing more."

 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
 "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
 That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
 Darkness there, and nothing more.

 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
 fearing,
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
 Merely this, and nothing more.

 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
 Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
 "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
 'Tis the wind and nothing more."

 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
 flutter,
 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
 Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
 he;
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
 craven,
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
 Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
 Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
 With such name as "Nevermore."

 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
 Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown
 before-
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
 Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
 "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
 Of 'Never- nevermore'."

 But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
 door;
 Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
 Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
 She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
 Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
 "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
 hath sent thee
 Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
 devil!-
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
 On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
 Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
 devil!
 By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

 "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked,
 upstarting-
 "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
 Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
 door!"
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
 floor;
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
 Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Robert Louis Stevenson

As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

From the bonny bells of heather
 They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far then honey,
 Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
 And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
 In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,
 A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
 He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
 He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
 Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
 Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
 Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
 On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
 Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
 Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
 Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
 Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
 And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
 Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
 And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
 Never a word they spoke;
A son and his aged father --
 Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
 He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
 Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
 And there on the giddy brink --
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
 For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father,
 And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
 The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
 Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
 A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged,
 And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
 Quoth the Pict to the king.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
 And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
 Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter,
 And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
 Under the eye of my son.
Take him, O king, and bind him,
 And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
 That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him,
 Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
 And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
 Like that of a child of ten; --
And there on the cliff stood the father,
 Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you:
 Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
 That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
 Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
 The secret of Heather Ale."

George Gordon Byron

Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o’er the water blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land – Good Night!

A few short hours and He will rise,
To give the Morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother Earth.
Deserted is my own good Hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on wall,
My Dog howls at the gate.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And now I’m in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my Dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He’d tear me where his stands.

With thee my bark , I’ll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves,
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land – Good night!

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Her arms across her breast she laid;
 She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
 Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
 To meet and greet her on her way;
“It is no wonder,” said the lords,
 “She is more beautiful than day.”

And shines the moon in clouded skies,
 She in poor attire was seen:
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
 One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So, sweet a face, such angel grace, 
 In all that land had never been:
Cophetua sware a royal oath:
 “That beggar maid shall be my queen!”

William Shakespeare

When icicles hang by the wall,
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
 And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
 Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
 And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
 And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
 Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

To be, or not to be; that is the question; 
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep:
Nor more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to; ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there is the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who will bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns,
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death –
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveler returns – puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.