XCVIII.

³ä òåáå â³ä³éøîâ ÿ íà âåñí³,
ßê êâ³òåíü ñòð³é ñòðîêàòèé íàäÿãíóâ
É äóõ þíîñòè ðîçêèíóâ ïî çåìë³,
Ùî àæ âàæêèé Ñàòóðí ç íèì ï³äñòðèáíóâ.
Òà íå ñï³â ïòàõ³â, êâ³ò³â àðîìàò,
¯õ ð³çíîðîäí³ êîëüîðè ³ ïàõ
Ñïîíóêóþòü ïðî ë³òî ðîçêàçàòü,
×è ðâàòè ¿õ, ÿê êâ³òíóòü ïî ïîëÿõ.
Íå ïîäèâëÿþ ë³ë³é á³ëèé öâ³ò
² íå õâàëþ ãëèáîêèé ðîæ áàãðåöü,
Âîíè ïàõó÷³ é ðàäóþòü âåñü ñâ³ò,
Òà öå â³ä òåáå, òè äëÿ íèõ âç³ðåöü.

Çèìà ó ìåíå, áî òåáå íåìà,
² ëèø, ìîâ ò³íü â³ä òåáå, öÿ âåñíà.

* * *

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
    Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
    As with your shadow I with these did play.