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ШЕКСПИР. СОНЕТ LXXXVI
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Возможно ли? Могучий дух стихий,
Наполнив ветром парус корабля, –
На брег его без мачт и без руля!
Меж скал и волн, – и заперт гордый змий?
Его ли дух, что голос мой бодрил,
Лишил меня и глаз, и языка?
А на уста – подобие стиха,
Как остов без руля и без ветрил.
Ни он, ни дух другой – ночной его собрат –
Кормилец и проказ невольный вдохновитель –
Я не хотел бежать, ни победить их,
Не страх меня сковал, не горечь от утрат...
Ты красотой наполнил стих его,
А другу не оставил ничего.
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Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain in hearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill′d up his line,
Then lack′d I matter; that enfeebled mine.
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