Afternoon in February. H.W.Longfellow
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.
----------------------
“Ôåâðàëüñêèé äåíü” Ãåíðè Âîðäñâîðò Ëîíãôåëëî
Äåíü ïîäõîäèò ê êîíöó,
Íî÷ü êðàä¸òñÿ ê êðûëüöó,
È çàì¸ðçëî áîëîòî,
È çàñòûëà ðåêà.
Ìåæäó òó÷, ãäå ïðîñâåò,
Ñîëíöà êðàñíîãî ñâåò;
 äåðåâåíñêèõ îêîøêàõ
Ñïîëîõ áëåùåò ñëåãêà.
Íà÷àëñÿ ñíåãîïàä.
 í¸ì íå âèäíî îãðàä:
Òå óæå íå îçíà÷àò
Äîðîãó â ïîëÿõ.
Ìèìî âñåõ äåðåâåíü,
Êàê óæàñíàÿ òåíü,
Ïîõîðîííûé êîðòåæ
Òèõî åäåò â ñíåãàõ.
Ñëûøíî: êîëîêîë áü¸ò.
Âñ¸ âî ìíå âîññòà¸ò,
Îòâå÷àÿ ïå÷àëüíî
Íà çâóê ãðîáîâîé.
Òåíü âñ¸ äàëüøå áåæèò;
Ìî¸ ñåðäöå ñêîðáèò,
Ñëîâíî êîëîêîë ýòîò.
Î, âå÷íûé ïîêîé!
(9.08.2019)