Но таа кон пустински места е склона,
без дожд,без роса и од сенки скраја,
каде ѕвездите се со лица ко Горгона
а небото за немилосрдноста е маја.

His feet will turn to desert places
Shadowless, reft of rain and dew,
Where stars stare down with sharpened faces
From heavens pitilessly blue.

And there at midnight sick with faring,
He will stoop down in his desire
To slake the thirst grown past all bearing
In stagnant water keen as fire.

================
ALONE

I am alone, in spite of love,
In spite of all I take and give—
In spite of all your tenderness,
Sometimes I am not glad to live.

I am alone, as though I stood
On the highest peak of the tired gray world,
About me only swirling snow,
Above me, endless space unfurled;

With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
And only my own spirit’s pride
To keep me from the peace of those
Who are not lonely, having died.

1.

2.

3.

4.

———————————–

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Во мојот препев,  гледајте како звучи еден одличен англиски поет:

Џон Китс
ENDYMION

24 стиха

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

John Keats

The Sleep of Endymion by Anne-Louis Girodet (1818), Musйe du Louvre, Paris.

Кога туѓата глупост на живо те дере
со ваистина дека лично Бог ја рекол
низ грлото на топот кон тебе вперен
седум колена пород да вкусат пекол;

Кога со сурова иронија кон себе сам
духовен подлив на душата си ложиш
ти ја пишуваат како за Бога да е срам
небаре на ангелите си им одрал кожи;

За одбрана кога сал шега си фрлил -
во очи како да си им начукал греди;
при сет ум мора да се правиш брлив,
ко овен блеав пастирот да го следиш.

Е па фала ви до небо за таквата ука
за партиципација толку живци немам;
нека ме служи умот дур срце ми чука
а вам бастун нека ви е Божјата шема.