Джеффри Чосер (1344? ) Geoffrey Chaucer «Кентерберийские рассказы» ( ) Canterbury Tales

Оригинал (ср.английский) Перевод (совр. англ.) Whan that aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of march hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open ye (so priketh hem nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; And specially from every shires ende Of engelond to caunterbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage) Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal

Художественный перевод на русский язык Когда Апрель обильными дождями Разрыхлил землю, взрытую ростками, И, мартовскую жажду утоля, От корня до зеленого стебля Набухли жилки той весенней силой, Что в каждой роще почки распустила, А солнце юное в своем пути Весь Овна знак успело обойти, И, ни на миг в ночи не засыпая, Без умолку звенели птичьи стаи, Так сердце им встревожил зов весны, Тогда со всех концов родной страны Паломников бессчетных вереницы Мощам заморским снова поклониться Стремились истово; но многих влек Фома Бекет, святой, что им помог В беде иль исцелил недуг старинный, Сам смерть прияв, как мученик безвинный.

Джеффри Чосер (1344? ) Geoffrey Chaucer «Кентерберийские рассказы» ( ) Canterbury Tales Рассказ Мельника The Millers Tale