Imagining of Literature

Скромен преводачески опит с едно стихотворение на любимия ми Робърт Фрост. Into My Own One of my wishes is that those dark trees, so old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom. I should not be withheld but that some day into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why I should e'er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him the knew-- Only more sure of all I though was true. Едно от моите желания това е - тъмните дървета, тез, които толкова устойчиви са, стари, че не допускат полъх и на бриз, да не бяха, както тъй е, с най-чистата придворна маска натъкмени, а да бяха разпрострели се надлъж, към Армагедона устремени. Не би трябвало