Какое ваше любимое стихотворение на английском языке? :
В школе задали принести стихотворение на английском. А мои любимые стихи есть только на русском.
А вы знаете какие нибудь стихи на английском языке? И почему они вам нравятся? :)

  • William Shakespeare:

    To be, or not to be: that is the question:
    Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
    And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
    No more; and by a sleep to say we end
    The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
    That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
    To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
    For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Must give us pause: there's the respect
    That makes calamity of so long life;
    For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
    The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
    The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
    The insolence of office and the spurns
    That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
    When he himself might his quietus make
    With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
    To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
    But that the dread of something after death,
    The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
    No traveller returns, puzzles the will
    And makes us rather bear those ills we have
    Than fly to others that we know not of?
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
    And thus the native hue of resolution
    Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
    And enterprises of great pith and moment
    With this regard their currents turn awry,
    And lose the name of action. — Soft you now!
    The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
    Be all my sins remember'd.

    Источник: Это отрывок из "Гамлета".Звучит очень красиво и потом, это оригинал...
  • мдаа ну попробуй Байрона он вроде считается там у них крутым.
  • Как-то в полночь, в час унылый, я вникал, устав, без силы,
    Меж томов старинных, в строки рассужденья одного
    По отвергнутой науке и расслышал смутно звуки,
    Вдруг у двери словно стуки - стук у входа моего.
    «Это-гость, - пробормотал я, - там, у входа моего,
    Гость, - и больше ничего! »

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
    Only this, and nothing more."

  • Here you go :)

    I take it you already know,
    Of tough and bough and cough and dough.
    Others may stumble, but not you,
    On hiccough, thorough, laugh and through.
    Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
    To learn of less familiar traps.
    Beware of heard, a dreadful word,
    That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
    And dead - it’s said like bed, not bead,
    For goodness’ sake, don’t call it ‘deed’!
    Watch out for meat and great and threat,
    (They rhyme with suite and straight and debt).
    A moth is not a moth in mother,
    Nor both in bother, broth in brother.
    And here is not a match for there,
    Nor dear and fear for bear and pear.
    And then there’s dose and rose and lose –
    Just look them up – and goose and choose.
    And cork and work and card and ward,
    And font and front and word and sword.
    And do and go and thwart and cart –
    Come, come, I’ve hardly made a start!
    A dreadful language? Why man alive!
    I’d mastered it when I was five.

    Источник: A Phonetic Poem.
  • из небесного Байрона :)

    She walks in beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
    And all that's best of dark and bright
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
    Thus mellow'd to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impair'd the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress
    Or softly lightens o'er her face,
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    And on that cheek and o'er the 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.

    довольно посредственный ( в сравнении с оригиналом) перевод Маршака:

    Она идет во всей красе
    Светла, как ночь ее страны.
    Вся глубь небес и звезды все
    В ее очах заключены,
    Как солнце в утренней росе,
    Но только мраком смягчены.

    Прибавить луч иль тень отнять -
    И будет уж совсем не та
    Волос агатовая прядь,
    Не те глаза, не те уста
    И лоб, где помыслов печать
    Так безупречна, так чиста.

    А этот взгляд, и цвет ланит,
    И легкий смех, как всплеск морской, -
    Все в ней о мире говорит.
    Она в душе хранит покой
    И если счастье подарит,
    То самой щедрою рукой!

    =================
    из Китса:

    When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
    Before high-piled books, in charactery,
    Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
    When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
    And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
    And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
    Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
    Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

    перевод Левика, тоже довольно условный:

    Когда страшусь, что смерть прервет мой труд,
    И выроню перо я поневоле,
    И в житницы томов не соберут
    Зерно, жнецом рассыпанное в поле,
    Когда я вижу ночи звездный лик
    И оттого в отчаянье немею,
    Что символов огромных не постиг
    И никогда постигнуть не сумею,
    И чувствую, что, созданный на час,
    Расстанусь и с тобою, незабвенной,
    Что власть любви уже не свяжет нас, -
    Тогда один на берегу вселенной
    Стою, стою и думаю - и вновь
    В Ничто уходят Слава и Любовь.

  • "Comin thro' the rye", Robert Burns.