Английское стихотворение про октябрь

(Dylan Thomas)Especially when the October windWith frosty fingers punishes my hair,Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fireAnd cast a shadow crab upon the land,By the sea\'s side, hearing the noise of birds,Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,My busy heart who shudders as she talksSheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.Shut, too, in a tower of words, I markOn the horizon walking like the treesThe wordy shapes of women, and the rowsOf the star-gestured children in the park.Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,Some of the oaken voices, from the rootsOf many a thorny shire tell you notes,Some let me make you of the water\"s speeches.Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clockTells me the hour\"s word, the neural meaningFlies on the shafted disk, declaims the morningAnd tells the windy weather in the cock.Some let me make you of the meadow\'s signs;The signal grass that tells me all I knowBreaks with the wormy winter through the eye.Some let me tell you of the raven\'s sins.Especially when the October wind(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)With fists of turnips punishes the land,Some let me make you of the heartless words.The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurryOf chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.By the sea\'s side hear the dark-vowelled birds.Перевод: (Дилан Томас)Когда в холодных пальцах октябряВстрепещут ветер, волосы и травы,И тень мою на солнечную лавуНабросит невысокая заря,Когда промчится к морю птичий гам,А ворон хрипло предречет морозы.Волной из сердца выплеснут - как розы,Как кровь - мои стихи к ее ногам.Фигуры-буквы, девицы-кусты,Аллея-космос, где мерцают дети, -Средь башен ярких слов, я полон этим...И мучаюсь в темнице немоты.О, стать бы мне и жить звенящим буком,Или напевом вековых дубрав,Сплетать слова корнями диких трав,Или греметь ручьем-тысячезвуком,\"Ку-ку\" над кадкой с папоротникомРонять в рассвет, усталости не зная,Или холодным флюгером играя,Подсказывать, что ветер за окном...В гнилой зиме протает полынья,Душа сомкнет все смыслы и приметы,Рождая строки из травы и света,Из сумрака и брани воронья,Когда в холодных пальцах октября(И всюду ты! - в волшбе, в осеннем цвете,В холмах валллийских, в паутинной сети!)Встрепещет репкой спелая заря!Я зол, я глуп, я немощно упрям,Но кровь моя, душе и сердцу вторя,Влечет меня к тебе, туда, где море,Стихи, заря и черный птичий гам.

October

October is the tenth month of the year in the Julian and Gregorian Calendars and the sixth month to have the length of 31 days. It is the eighth month in the old Roman calendar. Here are some poems about October

• By Carl Sandburg.
• By  Ellis Parker Butler.
• by Hilaire Belloc.

Poems about October

  By Carl Sandburg

I spot the hills

With yellow balls in autumn.

I light the prairie cornfields

Orange and tawny gold clusters

And I am called pumpkins.

On the last of October

When dusk is fallen

Children join hands

And circle round me

Singing ghost songs

And love to the harvest moon;

I am a jack-o\'-lantern

With terrible teeth

And the children know

I am fooling.

 

By  Ellis Parker Butler

 The forest holds high carnival to-day,

And every hill-side glows with gold and fire;

Ivy and sumac dress in colors gay,

And oak and maple mask in bright attire.

The hoarded wealth of sober autumn days

In lavish mood for motley garb is spent,

And nature for the while at folly plays,

Knowing the morrow brings a snowy Lent.

 

 By Hilaire Belloc

The green elm with the one great bough of gold  

Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one, --

The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white,

Harebell and scabious and tormentil,

That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun,

Bow down to; and the wind travels too light

To shake the fallen birch leaves from the fern;

The gossamers wander at their own will.  

At heavier steps than birds\' the squirrels scold.  

The rich scene has grown fresh again and new

As Spring and to the touch is not more cool

Than it is warm to the gaze; and now I might

As happy be as earth is beautiful,

Were I some other or with earth could turn

In alternation of violet and rose,

Harebell and snowdrop, at their season due,

And gorse that has no time not to be gay.  

But if this be not happiness, -- who knows?

Some day I shall think this a happy day,

And this mood by the name of melancholy

Shall no more blackened and obscured be.