The voice of the herd rises from the fields;
In the bushes the robins sing,
And a sweet aroma flows
From the whitened apple-trees of the garden.
The flowers gaze with tender melancholy,
Innocently pure, like spring,
Shedding fragrant dust,
The seeds of their rosy fruit.
Sister of the flowers, friend of the rose,
Look me in the eye,
Initiate a life-giving reverie,
Inspire my heart with song.
С полей несется голос стада,
В кустах малиновки звенят,
И с побелевших яблонь сада
Струится сладкий аромат.
Цветы глядят с тоской влюбленной,
Безгрешно чисты, как весна,
Роняя с пылью благовонной
Плодов румяных семена.
Сестра цветов, подруга розы,
Очами в очи мне взгляни,
Навей живительные грезы
И в сердце песню зарони!
«How is your life with another, — / Simpler, is it? — One stroke of an oar!— / And as easily as some coastline / Your memory of me Recedes, like a floating island / (In the sky — not the water!) / Souls, souls! should be your sisters, / Not your mistress—es! How is your life w...»
«On a pleasing Atlantic / Breath of spring — / Like a stupendous butterfly / My curtain — and — I Like a Hindu widow / Enter the gold-lipped crater, / Like a listless Naiad / Enter the sea beyond a window...»
«for Vera Arenskaya On the refugee-road! / It whooped — and bolted / Headlong on its wheels. / Time! I don’t have time. Caught up in chronicles / And kisses... like sands / In rustling streams... / Time, you let me down! Of clock-hands and wrinkles’ / Furrows — of American / ...»
«Hell’s too small, heaven too small to contain you: / Everyone’s already at the point of dying for you. But to follow your brother, sadly, into the fire — / Really, is that customary? It’s not a sister’s / Place, to radiate passion! / Really, is it customary to lie in his barrow......»