April 22nd, 2012

Абсолютное первое место

Присуждаю абсолютное первое место среди копипасторов фарсиязычным блогерам. Читал известный рассказ на фарси под названием "Жизнь Розы, которая не состарилась". Встретил словосочетание سرود شجاعان , которое буквально переводится как «Гимн храбрецов». Захотел узнать, что это за зверь, и спросил у гугля. Он ответил: Результатов: примерно 3 970. Не поленился просмотреть первые десять страниц. Все до одного блогеры старательно скопипастили рассказ безо всяких изменений, но никто не удосужился объяснить, что же такое этот «Гимн храбрецов».

Mezzo

Люблю слушать и смотреть этот канал. Услышав Erbarme dich, подумал, что хотел бы, чтобы эта музыка звучала на моих похоронах. Услышав её, хочется заснуть и не просыпаться.

Личное

NN была человеком на редкость образованным, свободно владела французским, немецким и английским языками и переводила на русский иностранные книги по садоводству, которым занималась с истинною страстью.

Прилично ли?

"Диавол посмеялся над всеми нами, введя столько скорбей в те дни, когда мы должны уходить от волнений мира сего, погружаться в молитву, ограничивать себя постом, каяться в своих собственных грехах." Это цитата из патриарха.
Прилично ли заглядывать под рясу патриарха, вот что беспокоит всех людей доброй воли.

Стихи Уильяма Батлера Йейтса про розу

The Rose of Battle

ROSE of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,
And God's bell buoyed to be the water's care;
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand,
Turn if you may from battles never done,
I call, as they go by me one by one,
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,
For him who hears love sing and never cease,
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade:
But gather all for whom no love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing passed
To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you
Who have sougft more than is in rain or dew,
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips,
And wage God's battles in the long grey ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last, defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
William Butler Yeats

The Rose of Peace
If Michael, leader of God's host
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post
He would his deeds forget.

Brooding no more upon God's wars
In his divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head.

And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God's great town,
Led on by gentle ways;

And God would bid His warfare cease,
Saying all things were well;
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven with Hell.
William Butler Yeats

The Rose of the World
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna's children died.

We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men's souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.

Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.
William Butler Yeats