Помогите перевестиIn stale blank verse a subject stale I send per post my Nightingale; And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth, You’ll tell me what you think, my Bird’s worth. My own opinion’s briefly this— His bill he opens not amiss.And when he has sung a stave or so, His breast, & some small space below, So throbs & swells, that you might swear
No vulgar music’s working there.