Why, revelry's voice, are you still?
Ring out, songs of Bacchus, our patron!
Long life to you, maiden and matron,
Ye fair ones who gave of your love with a will!
Drink, friend, drink with gusto and relish!
As I do in mine,
In your glass of wine
Fling lightly the ring that you cherish!
Come, let's clink our glasses and high let us raise them!
Hail, muses! Hail, reason! In song let us praise them!
Thou, bright sun of genius, shine on!
Like this ancient lamp that grows dimmer
And fades with the coming of dawn,
So false wisdom pales at the first flash and glimmer
Of true wisdom's ne'er-fading light...
Live, radiant day! Perish, darkness and night!
Что смолкнул веселия глас?
Раздайтесь, вакхальны припевы!
Да здравствуют нежные девы
И юные жены, любившие нас!
Полнее стакан наливайте!
На звонкое дно
В густое вино
Заветные кольца бросайте!
Подымем стаканы, содвинем их разом!
Да здравствуют музы, да здравствует разум!
Ты, солнце святое, гори!
Как эта лампада бледнеет
Пред ясным восходом зари,
Так ложная мудрость мерцает и тлеет
Пред солнцем бессмертным ума.
Да здравствует солнце, да скроется тьма!
«I felt in soul and body, / for the first time in years, / the silence after a blizzard, / the even light of the stars. Should the magi wish to see / their kindness to the end, / they’d bring me sheets of paper / A candle. Matches. And a pen. »
«From a frost-chilled / line of poetry / my anguish will drop / like a ripe berry. Rosehip juice will dye / fine crystals of snow — / and a stranger will smile / on his lonely way. Blending dirty sweat / with the purity of a tear, / he will carefully collect / the tinted crystal...»
«Our tools are primitive / and simple: / a rouble’s worth of paper, / a hurrying pencil, we need no more / to build a castle — / high in the air — / above the world’s bustle. Dante needed nothing else / to build gates / into that Hell hole / founded on ice.»
«They say we plough shallow, / always tripping and slipping, / but it’s hard to plough boldly / on the soil we’ve been given. We plough in a graveyard / just tickling the topsoil, / afraid our blades may turn up / bones of dead people.»