P rested Brook.
young handsome boy, killed WWI.
Hope - poetry - English empire. It is simply - Country.
little or unfamiliar name. For those who read, in Russian ..
Mr. Nabokov very few people are fond of writers like dead classical and (especially) contemporary (future classics, among whom himself and got) .. But now this "little boy" he loved and appreciated.
Oh, these talented British boys - "I left the house, went to war ...»
Svetlov survived - we were lucky (you remember, but his Grenada : "For a long time in captivity hugging pens floundering irresistible lieutenant ..." from the movie Ryazanov), Brooke - died ...
Well, the taste and color, as they say ....
Try the tooth a little closer to Russian. Frenzy-unexplained "Call»
Call.
Of cotton void insomnia
And Eternity stringy dreams,
There was rumbling, as of bells,
And I responded to the call.
Prepon nights I rubbed in the dust,
and gloom around cracked at the seams;
Ranks stars frozen in fear,
When the whole world, I lighted up.
Hell drawing in the Rye, casually
Peace I rushil centuries,
To prove the absolute inevitability of
our tryst with you.
crumbled I stars and the dust,
as cakes, molded them again,
me immortality bestowed
You and mine - to you - Love.
Your sad face is an evil mouth,
to laugh in a direct relationship with the fire;
I cut out above the clouds
Your monogram with the glow on it.
And ... crack Paradise and Hell smoldering
go out, izoydya in the fight;
And darkness falls, pouring scorn
Men's lust for you.
And if death comes to mock
above us - it will arouse fear
Light celebration on our faces,
Through boundless eternal darkness.
Such love, that are waiting for centuries,
Let's wait We, in the end:
Some over darkness ... ... And for us -
long Corroded remains of the gods.
© Copyright: Nezubkov , 2010
Y home I have a book of his poems. Posthumously, a year after his death published.
on from England, of course.
probably waiting for transcriptions. Nabokov himself quickie, shifting his poems. Removing rhymes for preservation of meaning. Tend to lose something, and more. The poem "Soldier" So a textbook in England as we say, "Lone White Sail." Of course, if anyone of us is remembered.
«Veroyatsii on the theme of the sonnet by Rupert Brooke's" Soldier "
When they kill me, think about,
What's in a foreign country is a piece of land, which
Became England forever ... There will be a black earth
batten, absorbed my ashes, which support
Britain was: having given birth to him, cherished,
Dove - sculpt flesh (with English also) soul -
For Travel - one hundred roads, and for the passions - the mall,
and cooled in the heat, and rinsed with river water.
And my heart stops to I shall be cleansed from evil I;
Only Memory push more brokers reverse,
In the world of thoughts that I thought (even during it),
Dreams and all that knew (and so far I know);
And my joyous laughter and kindness will again
in heart друзей, под небом Альбиона.
Rupert Brooke, The Soldier (1914)
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
© Copyright: Nezubkov , 2010
How nagdal lad himself quickly, but the main thing - the inevitable and almost tea-death ...
A bude who wish maybe more familiar with life, not the poet (I mean "creativity" from the second and utterly hasty hands of Vladimir Nabokov's great, then go here, you will not regret:
http://lib.rus.ec/b/38649/read
original record and comments on LiveInternet.ru
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