Из английской поэзии. Переводы Игоря Куберского


An Unkindly May
by Thomas Hardy

A shepherd stands by a gate in a white smock-frock;
He holds the gate ajar, intently counting his flock/
The sour spring wind is blurting boisterous-wise,
And bears on it dirty clouds across the skies;
Plantation timbers creak like rusty cranes,
And pigeons and rooks, dishevelled by late rains,
Are like gaunt vultures, sodden and unkempt,
And song-birds do not end what they attempt:
The buds have tried to open, but quite failing
Have pinched themselves together in their quailing,
The sun frowns whitely in eye-tying flaps
Through passing cloud-holes, mimicking audible taps.
"Nature, you're not commendable today!"
I think. "Better tomorrow!" she seems to say.

That shepherd still stands in white smock-frock,
Unnoting all things save the counting his flock.