стих на английском языке любого писателя

(Пушкин, "Няне")

A friend of my days harsh,

My dove!

One in the wilderness of pine forests

Long, long ago you were waiting for me.

You are under the window of his front room

You grieve like a clock,

Constantly and slow spokes

In your wrinkled hands.

You look at the forgotten gates

To the black distant way;

The longing, the apprehension, care

They're squeezing your Breasts.

You're imagining it. . . . . . .

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win. the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!Автор: Lord Byron