Ophelia was singing as she perished,
And she sang while plaiting a wreath;
With flowers, the wreaths, and verses
She sunk down to the riverbed.
So much in sad songs that is tempting,
Insinuates my soul toward dark depths.
So many are the feelings and songs,
The lacrimae and desires to me given.
Офелия гибла и пела,
И пела, сплетая венки;
С цветами, венками и песнью
На дно опустилась реки.
И многое с песнями канет
Мне в душу на темное дно,
И много мне чувства, и песен,
И слез, и мечтаний дано.
«I am happy living simply: / like a clock, or a calendar. / Worldy pilgrim, thin, / wise — as any creature. To know the spirit is my beloved. To come to things — swift / as a ray of light, or a look. / To live as I write: spare — the way / God asks me — and friends do not.»
«1 Poet — from afar starts a speech. / A poet - far away starts the speech. With planets, with marks, with roundabout / Tales' hollows... between yes and nay / He even having swung from the belltower / Took out the hook... For comets' way Is poets' way. The scattered chime of purpose —...»
«2 There are the extras, the unneeded / That do not fit within the norm. / (Not counting in your dictionaries / To them the landfill is their home). There are the hollow, the pushed-down, / There are the mute — like dung, / Nail — to your silken skirt hem! / Dirt from under the whe...»
«3 What should I do, blind and a stepson, / When all have fathers and have eyes, / When on anathema like embankments / Of passion! Where runny nose is the / Name of cry! What should I do, with rib and thought / Singing! — like wire! Siberia! Sunburn! / Upon your dreams — like on th...»