Все, что природа сотворила, Жило в ладу с моей душой. Но что, — подумал я уныло, — Что сделал человек с собой? Средь примул, полных ликованья, Барвинок нежный вил венок. От своего благоуханья Блаженствовал любой цветок. И, наблюдая птиц круженье, — Хоть и не мог их мыслей знать, — Я верил: каждое движенье Для них — восторг и благодать. И ветки ветра дуновенье Ловили веером своим. Я не испытывал сомненья, Что это было в радость им. И коль уверенность моя — Не наваждение пустое, Так что, — с тоскою думал я, — Что сделал человек с собою?
THE THORN
I 'There is a Thorn — it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn, It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens is it overgrown. II 'Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever. III 'High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water-never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. IV 'And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye,
