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!
«I want to live; I crave for sadness — / Against my bliss and love, in truth; / They sank my mind in idle gladness / And made my brow very smooth. It's time for high life's derogation / To blow away the hazy peace; / What is bard's life, void of desolation? / And what are void of tempe...»
«The blackened skies have reached the garden walk; / Yet my poor heart tonight cannot be not the restless… / The lights that have been failed, the lost of sounds talk, / Are they the remnants of the dream in sadness? Oh, how sad it was, the satin of her dress, / Her breast was very white, ...»
«They faded, the last bands of reddish, / Like whispers of prayers in night, / O tale, such seductive and maddish, / What else do you want of this heart? Are not, beyond measure and count, / So hard in the snows my ways? / Aren’t gray empty spaces around? / Isn’t husky the ring of t...»
«How dark and heavy’s the delirium’s embrace! / How they’re turbid under moon — the heights! / To have touched Violin for so many years / And not distinguish those Strings in light! Who craves for us? Who, insolent, has set / In flames two faces, yellow and vexed, / And sudden...»