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.
«So as a sorry jester telling of the wicked weight / Of his hump, do I tell the tale of this my orphaned state. / Behind a prince, his kin. Behind a seraph, seraphim. / Behind each one there are a thousand others just like him, / To reassure him, when he staggers, with a living wall / Of th...»
«My verse written so early in my life / I didn't know I was a poet yet, / My verse which burst off, like drops from a fountain, / Or sparks from rocket jets; And burst like tiny demons through the holy / Sanctum where sleep and incense come together; / My verse that went on about death and...»
«How's life with the other woman? / Simpler, yeah? A stroke of oars / by a long coastline, and even / memory of me unmoors as a floating island (in the / sky, not on the waters)! Poor / spirits, souls! You should be solely / sisters and not paramours. How's life with an ordinary / ...»
«Chénier went up to meet the guillotine, / And I'm alive. That is a dreadful sin. / There are times that steel over everyone. / He is no bard who sings as bullets spin. / He is no father, trembling at the gate, / Whose arms rip battle-armor off his son. / There are times when the sun ...»