The Christ-child had a garden,
And many roses He planted therein;
He had three times a day watered them,
In order to weave for Himself a garland later on.
When those roses were in full bloom,
He called the Hebrew children ;
They plucked off every flower,
And the whole garden was devastated.
— "How wilt Thou weave a garland for Thyself?
In Thy garden there are no more roses!"
— "You forgot that the thorns
Remained for Me," said Christ.
And from the thorns they wove
A spiny garland for Him —
And drops of blood, instead of roses,
Adorned His brow.
Был у Христа-младенца сад,
И много роз взрастил он в нем;
Он трижды в день их поливал,
Чтоб сплесть венок себе потом.
Когда же розы расцвели,
Детей еврейских со́звал он;
Они сорвали по цветку,
И сад был весь опустошен.
«Как ты сплетешь теперь венок?
В твоем саду нет больше роз!"
— «Вы позабыли, что шипы
Остались мне», — сказал Христос.
И из шипов они сплели
Венок колючий для него,
И капли крови вместо роз
Чело украсили его.
«"My critic, rosy-gilled, as quick as thought to offer / Our gloomy Muse affront, you plump, pot-bellied scoffer, / Come here, I beg, sit down, and have a little nip; / Together we may get the better of the hyp. / Behold those wretched huts: a view to feast your eyes on, / Black earth beyon...»
«For one last time my thought embraces / Your image, all but lost to me; / The heart with wistful longing traces / A dream that hour on hour effaces, / And dwells upon love's memory. Our years roll onward, swiftly changing; / They change, and we change in the end — / Far from your poet...»
«Abandoning an alien country, / You sought your distant native land; / How could I stop the tears at parting / When sorrow was beyond command? / With hands that momently grew colder / I tried to hold you, wordlessly / I begged that our farewells, our anguish, / Might be prolonged eterna...»
«No, never think, my dear, that in my heart I treasure / The tumult of the blood, the frenzied gusts of pleasure, / Those groans of hers, those shrieks : a young Bacchante's cries, / When writhing like a snake in my embrace she lies, / And wounding kiss and touch, urgent and hot, engender / ...»