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.
«Oh see the first lily of the valley! / From under the snow it asks only for / The sun’s beams; virgin luxury / In your fresh and fragrant pure odor! Bright as the first ray of spring! / What dreams descend upon it! / How enchantingly you betoken / How wildly spring will soon erupt! F...»
«It sounded above the clear river, / It rang out in the fading meadow, / It swept above the silent grove, / It lit up the opposite shore. Into the distant twilight / The river wound to the west. / Clouds, losing their gold hems, / Drifted like billows of smoke. From the hillock — firs...»
«He arrived back, a blue glacier, / Those nights from Tamara, / And then and again his wings marked / Where whir and nightmare should end. He did not sob, did not bind up / The exposed lash-striped scars. / His slab has survived beyond / The fence of a Georgian church. How strange that ...»
«Later on, there was the loft with hay / And it smelled like a wine cork / While August ran out of days / And weeds took over like the tropics. In the grass, on the sorrel, beads / Of sullen diamonds hung, / Chilling the taste-buds / Reminding of Riesling. September made headlines / D...»