I have come to you with greetings
To tell you the sun has risen,
To say that its burning light
Through the leaves has sent a flutter;
To say that the woods have waked,
Every corner, and every twig,
Every bird has taken wing
Full of appetite for spring;
To say I have come again
Full of passion, just like yesterday,
To tell you my soul is ready
To serve happiness and you;
To tell you that all around
Gaiety is wafting on me,
To tell you I really don't know
What I'll sing, — but that a song is coming.
Я пришёл к тебе с приветом,
Рассказать, что солнце встало,
Что оно горячим светом
По листам затрепетало;
Рассказать, что лес проснулся,
Весь проснулся, веткой каждой,
Каждой птицей встрепенулся
И весенней полон жаждой;
Рассказать, что с той же страстью,
Как вчера, пришёл я снова,
Что душа всё так же счастью
И тебе служить готова;
Рассказать, что отовсюду
На меня весельем веет,
Что не знаю сам, что́ буду
Петь — но только песня зреет.
«Bursting into the house like startled thunder / The first one comes, breathless, laughing, / Fluttering at my throat and spinning / To the sound of its own applause. Another is born in the silence of midnight, / Stealing upon me from who knows where. / It peers at me from an empty mirror,...»
«Did Beatrice have Dantesque visions? / Did Laura write Petrarchan sonnets: / I’ve taught women to speak, O God — / But how can I teach them silence?»
«Wrung-out insomnias, / Pooled wax at the base / Of a guttering candle, / The morning’s first sound / Of a hundred white bells. / Warm sills under Chernigov moons. / Bees and clover, darkness and dust, / Suffocating heat.»
«Again Chopin’s polonaise is being played, / Oh my God! — how many fans, / And downcast eyes, and tender mouths, / But how close is betrayal, how it rustles. Music’s shadow flickered on the wall, / But did not touch the greenish moonlight. / Oh, how many times I turned cold here / ...»