The snow melts, brooks run with babbles, —
The spring is coming fine and earnest…
Before long whistles of nightingales
Will sound in a dressed up forest.
In clear azure of the sky
The sun full brilliance is getting,
The cold snowy season has passed by,
Again the warmth is being set in.
The heart beats freely in the breast,
As if it is awaiting something,
Anticipating gentle caress
And worrying about nothing!
All souls are glad to meet this term —
“Spring!” — you can grasp through their eyes’ glow;
It is a holiday for them
Whose life is just a toil and woe.
Still children’s mirth and birds’ uproar,
Merged into harmonized sensation,
Reveal to me that they much more
Delight in nature’s renovation.
Уж тает снег, бегут ручьи,
В окно повеяло весною…
Засвищут скоро соловьи,
И лес оденется листвою!
Чиста небесная лазурь,
Теплей и ярче солнце стало,
Пора метелей злых и бурь
Опять надолго миновала.
И сердце сильно так в груди
Стучит, как будто ждет чего-то,
Как будто счастье впереди
И унесла зима заботы!
Все лица весело глядят.
«Весна!» — читаешь в каждом взоре;
И тот, как празднику, ей рад,
Чья жизнь — лишь тяжкий труд и горе.
Но резвых деток звонкий смех
И беззаботных птичек пенье
Мне говорят — кто больше всех
Природы любит обновленье!
«What’s it like with another woman — / Simpler? — a flash of the oar! — / Did the memory of me / soon fade off-shore, like the beach of a floating island, / (in the sky — not in the sea!) / Souls, souls! You’ll be sisters, / not lovers — that’s what you’ll be! What’s...»
«Dis-tances: miles, versts... / They dis-pelled us until we dis-persed, / So we would act as we were told / In two corners of the world. Dis-tances: versts, spaces… / They dislocated us, they displaced us, / They disjoint us, crucified on display, / And observed there, to their dismay,...»
«In the cold season, in a locality accustomed to heat more than / to cold, to horizontality more than to a mountain, / a child was born in a cave in order to save the world; / it blew as only in deserts in winter it blows, athwart. To Him, all things seemed enormous: His mother’s breast, the...»
«My dear Telemachus, / The Trojan War / is over now; I don’t recall who won it. / The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave / so many dead so far from their own homeland. / But still, my homeward way has proved too long. / While w...»