By Robert William Service (1874 — 1958)

The Sceptic

My Father Christmas passed away

 When I was barely seven.

 At twenty-one, alack-a-day, I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:

The hell of it's because

I don't know which loss hurt the worse —

 My God or Santa Claus.

О, Санта Клаус мой, прости!
Забыл тебя в семь лет,
И понял где-то к двадцати:
На рай надежды нет.
Ни в том, ни в этом нет беды,
Но, черт меня дери!
Нет Санты, испарился Бог...
Что хуже, я понять не смог.
Поди их разбери !

Take It Easy

When I was boxing in the ring
In 'Frisco back in ninety-seven,
I used to make five bucks a fling
To give as good as I was given.
But when I felt too fighting gay,
And tried to be a dinger-donger,
My second, Mike Muldoon. would say:
"Go easy, kid; you'll stay the longer."
When I was on the Yukon trail
The boys would warn, when things were bleakest,
The weakest link's the one to fail -
Said I: "by Gosh! I won't be weakest."
So I would strain with might and main,
Striving to prove I was the stronger,
Till Sourdough Sam would snap: "Goddam!
Go easy, son; you'' last the longer."

So all you lads of eighty odd
Take my advice — you'll never rue it:
Be quite prepared to meet your God,
But don't stampede yourselves to do it.
Just cultivate a sober gait;
Don't emulate the lively conger;
No need to race, slow down the pace,
Go easy, Pals — you'll linger longer. 

В те дни, когда я молод был,

(a дело было в девяностых)

На ринг во Фриско выходил,

Давалось это мне непросто.

За бой пять баксов получал,

Но мне всегда хотелось больше.

И Майк, мой секундант, сказал

«Остынь, сынок! Протянешь дольше»

Потом подался на Юкон

И там ребята мне сказали:

«На вид не больно ты силен,

Дорогу выдержишь едва ли…»

И я рванул в метель и мрак,

Чтоб слабаком не показаться

Мне Сэм кричал: «Уймись, дурак!

Сумеешь дольше продержаться!»

Стрелой промчалась жизнь моя

Уж позади восьмой десяток…

И как не горько мне, друзья,           

Но замаячил дней остаток.

На встречу с Богом не спеши,

В раю тебя никто не ищет.

Замедли шаг, ровней дыши,

Мы поживем еще, дружище!

 By Robert Frost (American poet, 1874-1963)

A Patch Of Old Snow
There’s a patch of old snow in a corner,
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten—
If I ever read it.

By William Blake (English poet, 1757— 1827)

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe: 

I told it not, my wrath did grow. 

And I watered it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears: 

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles. 

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;