²
Ñòàðèì íåìà òóò ì³ñöÿ. Ìîëîä³
 îá³éìàõ äðóæí³õ, ïòàõè íà äåðåâàõ,
- Ò³ ïîêîë³ííÿ çíèêëè - ¿õ ï³ñí³,
Ëîñîñ³â âîäîãðàé, ìîðÿ êèøàòü ìàêðåëëþ,
Ì'ÿñèâî, ðèáà, ïòèöÿ, â ðàä³ñòü ë³òí³ äí³
Óñüîìó ñóùîìó, íàðîäæåíèì ³ âìåðëèì.
 ïîëîí³ ìóçèêè ÷óòòºâî¿ çàáóò³
Íåòë³íí³ ïàì'ÿòêè ëþäñüêî¿ ñóò³.
II
ͳê÷åìíà ð³÷ - íåìîëîäà ëþäèíà,
Çàíîøåíå ïàëüòî ö³ïêîì ï³äïåðòå,
Òà äóõ ñïëåñíå â äîëîí³ é ï³ñíÿ ëèíå
³ä âñ³õ ðó¿í ó ¿õ óáðàíí³ ñìåðò³,
ͳÿêà øêîëà òàê ñï³âàòè á íå íàâ÷èëà,
Ñâîºþ âåëè÷÷þ íàâ÷àþòü ìîíóìåíòè;
Ïî ìîðþ ÿ â³äïðàâèâñÿ çà íèìè
² îñü ïðèáóâ â ñâÿùåííå ì³ñòî ³çàíò³þ.
III
Î ìóäðåö³, â âîãí³ ñâÿùåíí³ì Áîãà,
ßê â çîëîò³é ìîçà¿ö³ íà ñò³íàõ,
dzéä³òü ó âèõîð³ âîãíþ ñâÿòîãî
² ñòàíüòå ï³ñíåþ â äóø³ ãëèáèíàõ.
Òåðçàéòå ìîº ñåðöå; ñïðàãëå ³ óáîãå,
Çàêóòå â ïëîòü âìèðóùî¿ òâàðèíè,
Âîíî öüîãî íå ðîçó쳺; ïðèâåä³òü
Ìåíå â ìàéñòåðíå â³÷íîñò³ òâîð³ííÿ.
IV
Óòðàòèâøè ñâîþ ïðèðîäó, ³íøå ò³ëî
ͳêîëè íå ïðèéìó ÿ, êð³ì òàêîãî,
ßêå ìàéñòðè ³ç Ãðåö³¿ ñòâîðèëè
Ç åìàëåé çîëîòèõ ³ ð³çüáëåííÿ çëîòîãî,
Ùî ñîí ó ³ìïåðàòîðà ðîç⳺;
×è êèíóñÿ ñï³âàòè â çîëîòîìó ã³ëë³
×îëîâ³êàì ³ æîíàì ³çàíò³¿
Òå, ùî ïðîéøëî, ìèíຠ÷è íàñòàíå.
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R371WMTR4GA[/youtube]
[b]William Butler Yeats SAILING TO BYZANTIUM[/b]
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
1928
àäðåñà: https://www.poetryclub.com.ua/getpoem.php?id=957821
Ðóáðèêà: ˳ðèêà êîõàííÿ
äàòà íàäõîäæåííÿ 28.08.2022
àâòîð: Çîÿ Á³äèëî