Like a wavy cloud-shape,
Distant dust stirs there;
Mounted horseman, footman —
In the dust unclear.
Someone I see that gallops,
Horsed, swift as the wind.
Friend, my friend far distant,
Call me back to mind.
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На лихом коне.
Друг мой, друг далёкий,
Вспомни обо мне!
«I dearly, dearly long to be with you, / to sit and chat with you, drink tea with you. You’d do the talking — I would be all ears; / your voice grows ever dearer with the years. You, too, knew grief and fury and disdain; / you, too, died slowly, slowly and in pain.»
«The smokey blotches of the neighbours’ windows, / and windswept roses bending, drawing breath — / if I could think that life is but a dream, / that we cannot help waking after death. To wait in heaven — heaven is so blue — / to wait in that cool bliss without a care. / And then, ...»
«I still find charm in little accidental / trifles, empty little things — / say, in a novel without end or title, / or in this rose, now wilting in my hands. I like its moiré petals, dappled / with trembling silver drops of rain — / and how I found it on the sidewalk, / and how I’...»
«Where can I look, where can I go, / to find that almost Alpine snow, / all sacrificed so life can grow, / all turned by May to splash and flow, / to breath of dandelion and rose, / to mighty wave or shining billow — / into that foolish question posed / by François Villon long ago?»