Эдвин Робинсон (1869 - 1935) - американский поэт, лауреат Пулитцеровской премии.
Boston
My northern pines are good enough for me, But there’s a town my memory uprears— A town that always like a friend appears, And always in the sunrise by
the sea. And over it, somehow, there seems to be A downward
flash of something new and fierce, That ever strives to clear, but never clears The dimness of a charmed antiquity.
-------------------------------------------------- my northern pines:[pains] - мои северные сосны
my memory uprears:[Ap’riэs] - моя память воссоздает
a downward flash of something new and fierce:[‘fiэs] - гаснущая вспышка чего-то нового и яркого
that ever strives to clear: strive-strove-striven [straiv-strэuv-’striv(э)n] - которая всё время пытается стать ясной
the dimness of a charmed antiquity:[‘dimnэs][En’tikwэti] - замутнённость очарованной старины --------------------------------------------------
Her Eyes
Up from the street and the crowds that went, Morning
and midnight, to and fro, Still was the room where his days he spent, And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.
Year
after year, with his dream shut fast, He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim, For the love that his brushes had earned at last, - And the whole world rang with the praise of him.
But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray. "There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . . "There are stars enough - when the sun's away."
Then he went back to the same still room That had held his dream in the long ago, When he buried his days in a nameless tomb, And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.
And a passionate humor seized him there - Seized him and held him until there grew Likelife on his canvas, glowing and fair, A perilous face -- and an angel's, too.
Angel and maiden, and all in one, - All but the eyes. - They were there, but yet They seemed somehow like a soul half done. What was the matter? Did God forget? . . .
But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman, - With a gleam of heaven to make them pure, And a glimmer of hell to make them human.
God never forgets. - And he worships her There in that same still room of his, For his wife, and his constant arbiter Of the world that was and the world that is.
And he wonders yet what her love could be To punish him after that strife so grim; But the longer he lives with her eyes to see, The plainer it all comes back to him.
-------------------------------------------------- to and fro: - туда и сюда
but he cloaked his triumph: [klэuk] [‘traiэmf] - но он скрыл своё ликование
till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray:sere = sear [siэ] - пока его щёки не увяли и волосы
не поседели
and a passionate humor seized him there:[‘pEш(э)nэt]
[si:zd] - и влюблённость охватила его там
likelife on his canvas, glowing and fair - как жизнь на его холсте, пылкое и прекрасное
(лицо)
