Let the nightingale resound,
Let us feel the first light’s gaze,
Let me wrap my arm, stretched out,
In the gloom, around your waist.
The canoe will drift by, lazy,
Past the swaying reeds, eclipsed,
You will fall to me, embracing,
Burning passion - on your lips.
Sing for me, my love, with feeling,
As your melody grows strong,
It's more charming, more appealing
Than the nightingale’s song!...
Пусть рассвет глядит нам в очи,
Соловей поет ночной,
Пусть хоть раз во мраке ночи
Обовью твой стан рукой.
И челнок пойдет, качаясь
В длинных темных камышах,
Ты прильнешь ко мне, ласкаясь,
С жаркой страстью на устах.
Пой любовь, пусть с дивной песней
Голос льется все сильней,
Ты прекрасней, ты прелестней,
Чем полночный соловей!..
«They run like a throng of gypsies, / chasing after the long-fingered Paganini, / one with a Czech sneeze, another with a Polish dance, / and still another with a Hungarian refrain. Comfort me with your playing, / proud little prodigy / whose sound is broad as the Yenisey, / little Polis...»
«They swoon for long-clawed Paganini, / Like gypsy mobs they swarm and prance, / A Czech is sneezing sneezes, and a Pole is balling squeezes, / And a Magyar’s in a rowdy sort of whackadoodle dance. / / Hey, girl, yeah you, proud parvenu, / Whose sound is broad like Yenisei, / Consu...»
«Petals of wide-parted, childlike-moist lips, / Now gone to numbness and pursed full of chill, / While the ballroom floats on, and its sounds ever spill / Over long grievous longings that raptures eclipse. The mirrors in undulance, chandeliers’ gleam / Meld to form crystalline ghostly mira...»
«Night. Street. Lamplight. Pharmacy. / A dim senseless glow all about. / Live twenty more years, look around, what’s to see? / Nothing will change. No way out. Then die — and all begins over to breathe and to be, / And the same bleary haze hovers over the damp / Night, icy ripples...»