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Из английской поэзии. Переводы Игоря Куберского

An Unkindly May by Thomas Hardy A shepherd stands by a gate in a white smock-frock; He holds the gate ajar, intently counting his flock/ The sour spring wind is blurting boisterous-wise, And bears on it dirty clouds across the skies; Plantation timbers creak like rusty cranes, And pigeons and rooks, dishevelled by late rains, Are like gaunt vultures, sodden and unkempt, And song-birds do not end what they attempt: The buds have tried to open, but quite failing Have pinched themselves together in their quailing, The sun frowns whitely in eye-tying flaps Through passing cloud-holes, mimicking audible taps. "Nature, you're not commendable today!" I think. "Better tomorrow!" she seems to say. That shepherd still stands in white smock-frock, Unnoting all things save the counting his flock.