Proszę o dobre przetłumaczenie poniższych wierszyHOMEOften I had gone this way before: But now it seemed I never could be And never had been anywhere else; 'Twas home; one nationality We had, I and the birds that sang, One memory. They welcomed me. I had come back That eve somehow from somewhere far: The April mist, the chill, the calm, Meant the same thing familiar And pleasant to us, and strange too, Yet with no bar. The thrush on the oak top in the lane Sang his last song, or last but one; And as he ended, on the elm Another had but just begun His last; they knew no more than I The day was done. Then past his dark white cottage front A labourer went along, his tread Slow, half with weariness, half with ease; And, through the silence, from his shed The sound of sawing rounded all That silence said.Song at the Beginning of Autumn Now watch this autumn that arrives In smells. All looks like summer still; Colours are quite unchanged, the air On green and white serenely thrives. Heavy the trees with growth and full The fields. Flowers flourish everywhere. Proust who collected time within A child's cake would understand The ambiguity of this - Summer still raging while a thin Column of smoke stirs from the land Proving that autumn gropes for us. But every season is a kind Of rich nostalgia. We give names - Autumn and summer, winter, spring - As though to unfasten from the mind Our moods and give them outward forms. We want the certain, solid thing. But I am carried back against My will into a childhood where Autumn is bonfires, marble, smoke; I lean against my window fenced From evocations in the air. When I said autumn, autumn broke.
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