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    Главная » 2010 » Сентябрь » 29 » Cтихи на английском языке ( Анна Андреевна Ахматова )
    Cтихи на английском языке ( Анна Андреевна Ахматова )
    Анна Андреевна Ахматова
    стихи на английском

    Has my fate really been so altered,

    Or is this game truly truly over?
    Where are winters, when I fell asleep
    In the morning in the sixth hour?

    In a new way, severely and calmly,
    I now live on the wild shore.
    I can no longer pronounce
    The tender or idle word.

    I can't believe that Christmas-tide is coming.
    Touchingly green is this the steppe before
    The beaming sun. Like a warm
    Wave, licks the tender shore.

    When from happiness languid and tired
    I was, then of such quiet
    With trembling inexpressible I dreamed
    And this in my imagining I deemed
    The after-mortal wandering of the soul.

    Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked,
    I look with worry on the chambers dark?
    Already used to ringing high and raw,
    Already judged not by the earthly law,
    I, like a criminal, am being drawn along
    To place of shame and execution long.
    I see the glorious city, and the voice most dear,
    As though there is no secret grave to fear,
    Where day and night, in heat and in cold bent,
    I must await the Final Judgment.

    I will lead a man to dear one --
    I don't want the little joy --
    And I'll quietly lay to sleep
    The glad, tired little boy.

    In a chilly room once more
    I will pray to Mother of God,
    It is hard to be a hermit,
    To be happy is also hard.

    Only fiery sleep will come to me,
    I'll enter a temple on the hill,
    Five-domed, white, and stone-hewn,
    On the paths remembered well.

    The spring was still mysteriously swooning,
    Across the hills wandered transparent wind
    And the deep lake was growing blue among us --
    A temple forged and kept not by mankind.

    You were affrighted of our first encounter,
    And prayed already for the second one,
    And now today once more is the hot evening --
    How low over the mountain dropped the sun..

    You aren't with me, but this is not a parting:
    For me triumphant news is in each moment.
    I know that you can't even pronounce a word
    For so complete within you is the torment.

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