You’ll vanish in the tall grass, toe to head,
You’ll enter the silent house without knocking.
She’ll wrap her arms around you and her braid,
And she’ll say, stately, “Well, hello, king!
Look, here is my bower of white roses,
And here a bindweed bloomed yesterday.
Where have you wandered, what’s the news?
Who loves us, who hates, who drives us away?”
Sometimes you forget that the days go by,
You forgive the prideful and villainous,
You watch distant clouds invade the sky
Or listen to songs of far villages.
But the heart will cry out for a fresh journey,
Yearning for battle in its restlessness.
She’ll just say, “Goodbye. Come back to me.”
And again the bell tinkles behind the grass.
В густой траве пропадешь с головой.
В тихий дом войдешь, не стучась...
Обнимет рукой, оплетет косой
И, статная, скажет: "Здравствуй, князь.
Вот здесь у меня — куст белых роз.
Вот здесь вчера — повилика вилась.
Где был, пропадал? что за весть принес?
Кто любит, не любит, кто гонит нас?"
Как бывало, забудешь, что дни идут,
Как бывало, простишь, кто горд и зол.
И смотришь — тучи вдали встают,
И слушаешь песни далеких сел...
Заплачет сердце по чужой стороне,
Запросится в бой — зовет и манит...
Только скажет: "Прощай. Вернись ко мне" —
И опять за травой колокольчик звенит...
«If not a bayonet — then a tusk, a snowbank, a squall, — / On the hour, another train — to Immortality! / I came and knew one thing: it's just another stop. / And not worth unpacking. Upon everyone, everything — my indifferent eyes, / Come to rest — on the immemorial. / O how n...»
«How is your life with another, — / Simpler, is it? — One stroke of an oar!— / And as easily as some coastline / Your memory of me Recedes, like a floating island / (In the sky — not the water!) / Souls, souls! should be your sisters, / Not your mistress—es! How is your life w...»
«On a pleasing Atlantic / Breath of spring — / Like a stupendous butterfly / My curtain — and — I Like a Hindu widow / Enter the gold-lipped crater, / Like a listless Naiad / Enter the sea beyond a window...»
«for Vera Arenskaya On the refugee-road! / It whooped — and bolted / Headlong on its wheels. / Time! I don’t have time. Caught up in chronicles / And kisses... like sands / In rustling streams... / Time, you let me down! Of clock-hands and wrinkles’ / Furrows — of American / ...»