There’s a morn demon. He’s of gauze and light,
The happy one — with golden hair.
Like skies, is blue his tunic’s airy flood,
All — in a play of brilliants, fair.
But like through azures sometimes look dark nights,
Thus through his face sometimes looks something horrid,
Something dark-red — through his curls’ shining gold,
Through his soft voice — forgotten tempests’ blasts.
Есть демон утра. Дымно-светел он,
Золотокудрый и счастливый.
Как небо, синь струящийся хитон,
Весь — перламутра переливы.
Но как ночною тьмой сквозит лазурь,
Так этот лик сквозит порой ужасным,
И золото кудрей — червонно-красным,
И голос — рокотом забытых бурь.
«May the organ’s sounds burst out once more / Like the first spring thunderstorm: / Behind the shoulder of your young bride / My half-closed eyes will meet your eyes. Farewell, my beauteous friend, be happy, / I relieve you from your sweet vow, / But do not reveal to your passionate swee...»
«A simple way of life I’ve learned to live / To look up at the sky and pray to God / Take long, slow walks before the evening dies / To tire my unnecessary worry. When burdocks rustle in the ravine / And a yellow-red rowan drops its clusters, / Then I compose my cheerful verses / About...»
«To awake when dawn is breaking, / Just because joy stops me sleeping, / And to look out through the port-hole / Where the green waves beat outside, / Or on deck with the rain falling / To sit wrapped with furs around me, / Listen to the engine throbbing, / And to have thoughts at all, ...»
«It is simple, it is easy. / Everyone can understand it; / Not the smallest love you bear me, / You will never long for me. / Why should I be full of longing / For a man who is a stranger? / Why should I kneel every evening / To put up a prayer for you? / Why should I forsake mv comra...»