Aftermath. H.W.Longfellow
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
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«Âòîðè÷íûé ïîêîñ» Ãåíðè Âîðäñâîðò Ëîíãôåëëî
Êîãäà âñå ñæàòû ëåòíèå ïîëÿ,
È ïðîâîæàåò ñòàè â ïóòü çåìëÿ,
È äîë ñòîèò â ñóõîé ëèñòâå, êîðè÷íåâ,
È íà÷èíàåò ïåðâûé ñíåã ëåòàòü,
È âîðîí õðèïëî êàðêàåò îïÿòü –
Ìû ñíîâà ïîëå íà÷èíàåì æàòü:
Ïðèøëà ïîðà, íàñòàë ïîêîñ âòîðè÷íûé.
Ýòî óæå íå ìàéñêàÿ òðàâà,
×òî ðàñöâåñòè óñïåëà ëèøü åäâà,
Íå ñî÷íûé êëåâåð, âåñü â ñîöâåòüÿõ ïûøíûõ –
Ýòî ðàçðîñøèåñÿ ñîðíÿêè,
Ïó÷êè áóðüÿíà ñ ïîéìåííîé ðåêè,
Ãäå ìàê ðàññûïàë ñåìåíà: ïó÷êè
Òîð÷àò; è ñóìðàê, íè÷åãî íå ñëûøíî.
(8.08.2019)