По следам переводов
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Уильям Шекспир не ёксель - моксель.
Был, помню, моксель, но давно.
Уильям в театре прохлаждался,
Жаль, нынче жить не суждено.
Любил сонеты, кильку, шпроты.
А пьесы вряд ли сочинял.
Играл в театре с перепуга,
И кляуз точно не писал.
Шекспир прославлен - это точно,
А я прославлен или нет?
Люблю капусту,Вальку с Манькой,
Но кто принёс цветов букет?
Свидетельство о публикации №121050200536