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Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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Шотландский ветер Лермонтова
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Серия
Год написания книги
2019
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And, frolicking, above the mottled plains,
The raptor rushes straight out of the blue,
Hoving between clouds and into view.
Colossus-like, eternity bestrides
Impermanence to strike the mind of man.
The boundless ocean of the steppe elides
Description, turning blue across its span,
Sounding universal harmony, and this,
For us, is suffering or bliss:
All becomes transparent, but this weight
Will count when we present ourselves to fate.
Who has ever sat among the peaks
In that hour when day holds precious light,
Gazed westwards, where the bright planet leaps
Into the sky, while shades of looming night
Gather in the east, the scarps, ravines, beams
Glinting all around the tops of loftiest extremes,
And where the weird crown of cloud ignites
After the storm, the rays glancing in the heights;
For him, a heavy heart, of former years
Full, and beating fiercely; this mad ideal
Breathes life into a skeleton, the same tears
And almost all the beauty of the real,
Just as the vain man’s hungry gaze retains
The image of his portrait, though not much remains
Of likeness to the eyes’ bright lustre on the board portrayed
And that long effaced by time as vital passions fade.
Is anything on earth more splendid than these pyramids
Of Nature, majestic snowy pinnacles,
Whose flanks may disappear amidst
The mist, but no man’s victories or miracles
Compare to what is seen there, where clouds seem
Like crowds and lightning wreathes the beam
Of light that tops the rocks; nothing imaginary is real
And he who has seen heaven need not fear the corporeal.
But the steppe, when unbounded, stirs unease
With its mile upon mile of waving feathergrass.
No purpose in the meandering north-east breeze
As it kicks up dust willy-nilly in its path;
And, where all around, how cruelly to the eye is lacking
The sight of two or three birch trees, backing
Into the distance under the bluish haze
And fading to black in the emptying of days.
And, when there’s no struggle, life’s a drag.
Having found a way in, the colour of the years
Starts to fade and vital spirits sag –
There’s little left now that the soul cheers.
So, each day I must perform some mighty work
Of which immortals would be proud, not shirk
An acting hero’s duties or comprehend
The raptor rushes straight out of the blue,
Hoving between clouds and into view.
Colossus-like, eternity bestrides
Impermanence to strike the mind of man.
The boundless ocean of the steppe elides
Description, turning blue across its span,
Sounding universal harmony, and this,
For us, is suffering or bliss:
All becomes transparent, but this weight
Will count when we present ourselves to fate.
Who has ever sat among the peaks
In that hour when day holds precious light,
Gazed westwards, where the bright planet leaps
Into the sky, while shades of looming night
Gather in the east, the scarps, ravines, beams
Glinting all around the tops of loftiest extremes,
And where the weird crown of cloud ignites
After the storm, the rays glancing in the heights;
For him, a heavy heart, of former years
Full, and beating fiercely; this mad ideal
Breathes life into a skeleton, the same tears
And almost all the beauty of the real,
Just as the vain man’s hungry gaze retains
The image of his portrait, though not much remains
Of likeness to the eyes’ bright lustre on the board portrayed
And that long effaced by time as vital passions fade.
Is anything on earth more splendid than these pyramids
Of Nature, majestic snowy pinnacles,
Whose flanks may disappear amidst
The mist, but no man’s victories or miracles
Compare to what is seen there, where clouds seem
Like crowds and lightning wreathes the beam
Of light that tops the rocks; nothing imaginary is real
And he who has seen heaven need not fear the corporeal.
But the steppe, when unbounded, stirs unease
With its mile upon mile of waving feathergrass.
No purpose in the meandering north-east breeze
As it kicks up dust willy-nilly in its path;
And, where all around, how cruelly to the eye is lacking
The sight of two or three birch trees, backing
Into the distance under the bluish haze
And fading to black in the emptying of days.
And, when there’s no struggle, life’s a drag.
Having found a way in, the colour of the years
Starts to fade and vital spirits sag –
There’s little left now that the soul cheers.
So, each day I must perform some mighty work
Of which immortals would be proud, not shirk
An acting hero’s duties or comprehend
Другие электронные книги автора Максим Привезенцев
Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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