Taedium vitae


To stab my youth with desperate knife, to wear
This paltry age’s gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,

And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom, - I swear,
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,

Quia multum amavi

 Андрей Фролов 
 (Переводы стихов О. Уальда)


Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest 
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine 
His god imprisoned in the Eucharist, 
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine, 

Мой голос


Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts’ full pleasure – You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow hath paled my lip’s vermilion,

Её голос

 Андрей Фролов 
 (Переводы стихов О. Уальда)


The wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now 
Setting jacinth bell a-swing.
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: in was here I trow



To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which can winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom and austere control?

Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay,

Santa Decca


The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
  To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
  Demeter`s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
  By secret glade and devious haunt is o`er:
  Young Hylas1 seeks the water-springs no more;

Amor Intellectualis


Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home

На берегу реки Арно


  The oleander on the wall
  Grows crimson in the dawning light,
  Though the grey shadows of the night
  Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

  The dew is bright upon the hill,
  And bright the blossoms overhead,
  But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
  The little Attic song is still.



O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!

Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?


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 Андрей Фролов 
 (Переводы стихов О. Уальда)


Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,

Madonna mia


Alily-girl, not made for this world's pain,
  With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
  And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
  Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,

Vita nuova


I stood by the unvintageable sea
Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,
The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;

Ana to the land the clamourous gulls did flee:
“Alas!” I cried, “my life is full of pain,
And who can garner fruit of golden grain,

E Tenebris


Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie

Easter day


The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.

Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:

Сонет на исполнение "Dies Irae" в Сикстинской капелле


Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, 
  Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, 
  Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love 
Than terrors of red flame and thundering. 

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