By A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman was once one of many best-loved poets of his day, whose poems conjure up a effective and idyllic rural global imbued with a poignant feel of loss. they're expressed in uncomplicated rhythms, but express a great ear for the subtleties of metre and alliteration. His scope is huge -- starting from non secular doubt to extreme nostalgia for the geographical region. This quantity brings jointly 'A Shropshire Lad' (1896) and 'Last Poems' (1922), besides the posthumous choices 'More Poems' and 'Additional Poems', and 3 translations of extracts from Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides that reveal his mastery of Classical literature.
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White Flock Poetry of Anna Akhmatova Translated by Andrey Kneller Copyright Kneller, Boston, 2013 All rights reserved For Lena and Sasha “…The intensely personal lyricism of White Flock is tinged with the note that was destined to become her imprimatur: the note of controlled terror. The mechanism designed to keep in check emotions of a romantic nature proved to be as effective when applied to mortal fears. The latter was increasingly intertwined with the former until they resulted in emotional tautology, and White Flock mark the beginning of this process.
1914 *** We’re not in the forest, no need to bellow, - Such mockery fills me with dread… Won’t you sing lullabies in order to mellow My wounded conscience instead? You have many other cares, Another wife, I realize… And the Petersburg spring stares Deep into my withered eyes. With a heavy cough or a nighttime fever - All deserved - it will kill me swift. Beneath the spreading steam on the Neva river, Ice begins to drift. 1914 *** Все обещало мне его: Край неба, тусклый и червонный, И милый сон под Рождество, И Пасхи ветер многозвонный, И прутья красные лозы, И парковые водопады, И две большие стрекозы На ржавом чугуне ограды.
She’s just a little fife who’s made of clay, What is the cause for all of her complaining? Who left all of my sins for her exposed? And why does she forgive me anyhow? Or is a voice reciting to me now The poetry you've recently composed?... 1912 *** Вместо мудрости - опытность, пресное Неутоляющее питье. А юность была как молитва воскресная... Мне ли забыть ее? Сколько дорог пустынных исхожено С тем, кто мне не был мил, Сколько поклонов в церквах положено За того, кто меня любил... Стала забывчивей всех забывчивых, Тихо плывут года.
A Shropshire Lad and Other Poems: The Collected Poems of A.E. Housman by A. E. Housman