Russell W. Davenport (1899-1954)

[nac_dem]

Мой край для закаханых у зямлю,

Хто ўвесну нішчыць плугам цяжкім чары

Зімовай сьцюжы, пакідаючы ральлю

Зіхцець пад промнямі, і сонцам валадарыць.

Калі набухшыя, як вены, раўчукі

Заспалай глебы наталяюць смагу,

І статкі быдла гоняць хлапчукі

Дабраславіць красавіковых траваў прагу.

Ўсё існае ў экстазе ды агні,

Дужэюць лярвы, расквітаюць кветкі.

Выкідвае

Comments

[nac_dem]

Арыгінал:

My Country loves the lovers of her land;
They who in Spring behind the heavy plows
Rip up the sterile project Winter planned;
When brooks are like extended veins, and sloughs
Have soaked the feet of every shivering hill,
And in the April sunlight Winter’s cows
Crop the intoxicating chlorophyll:
They who endure the agony, who share
The lustful intumescence of the Will
To wake the larvae and enchant the fair
And wistful flowers from the dark, and call
The butterflies into the dusty air
And orange honeysuckle from the wall:
And the muscled Will of pregnancy to squeeze
From deep and planetary silence, all
That life has yet conceived, or can increase;
To load the land with hay and golden grain
And vines and heavy corn and calves and pease,
In light as hot as liquor in the brain,
In August, when the sun goes down so late.

Russell W. Davenport