In the days of my youth she was fond of me,
And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me.
To me with smile she listened; and already gently
Along the openings echoing of the woods
Was playing I with fingers tender:
Both hymns solemn, god-inspired
And peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd.
From morn till night in oak's dumb shadow
To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened;
And with sparing reward me gladdening
Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear,
From my hands the flute herself she took.
Now filled the wood was with breath divine
And the heart with holy enchantment filled.
В младенчестве моем она меня любила
И семиствольную цевницу мне вручила.
Она внимала мне с улыбкой — и слегка,
По звонким скважинам пустого тростника,
Уже наигрывал я слабыми перстами
И гимны важные, внушенные богами,
И песни мирные фригийских пастухов.
С утра до вечера в немой тени дубов
Прилежно я внимал урокам девы тайной,
И, радуя меня наградою случайной,
Откинув локоны от милого чела,
Сама из рук моих свирель она брала.
Тростник был оживлен божественным дыханьем
И сердце наполнял святым очарованьем.
«Thank God, here is the shade again! / Why it is I do not know, / But since the morning I have felt / This dying hanging over me / All the livelong twilit day! / Serving out its bitter time / Between decrepit yellow walls, / Shrivelled, shuddering on its string, / A gloomy red balloon...»
«Across the dirty sky, words etched with rays / of greenish light: “Chocolate and Cocoa.” / And cars, like cats with trampled tails, / wail frantically: “Meow! Meow!” Black trees, like scraggly brooms, / have swept the rouged stars from the sky, / and red-haired, loud-mouthed trams...»
«Over fish, under stars, / the little boat races — / three Greeks are aboard, / smuggling goods to Odessa. / Jibing and tacking, / skipping over the waters, / are Yanaki, Stavraki, / and Papa Satyros. / The wind — how it whoops! / How it whistles right past — / sets the nail...»
«And Pushkin crumples into blueish brittle / Snow’s blanket. And he knows this is the end… / The cruel bullet’s sting is true and it’ll / Take poet’s lifeblood with its flighted trend. / The bloodied shirt… The fur cape now abandoned. / The sledge’s runners’ rattles seem to ...»