My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning,
Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning,
A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge
Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge
And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.
I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,
Meet mine... I see your smile... You speak to me alone:
My friend, my dearest friend... I love... I'm yours... your own.
Мой голос для тебя и ласковый и томный
Тревожит позднее молчанье ночи темной.
Близ ложа моего печальная свеча
Горит; мои стихи, сливаясь и журча,
Текут, ручьи любви, текут, полны тобою.
Во тьме твои глаза блистают предо мною,
Мне улыбаются, и звуки слышу я:
Мой друг, мой нежный друг... люблю... твоя... твоя...
«Petrichor. Bell towers resound. / Heart is wounded joyfully — by whom? / Who has thrown the stone on the ground, / Who broke in the chamber of my tomb? Mare's tails; sky deepening and lumining, / Pearls of daylight scattered... Am I worth?.. / As a maiden on her first communion, / The...»
«In Spring, along a waving stalk, a fly / Ascending sees set high / Above her on a flower, / A bee, ensconced as in a bower; / And haughtily remarks: — "A busy state is yours / That all the day from morn to eve, duU work endures! / Called to vexatious toil, I might indeed have faint...»
«The sullen rain / cast a glance / askance. / Beyond the still / clear grille — / the iron reasoning of wires strung overhead — / a featherbed. / And on it / rested lightly / the legs of rising stars. / But as / the streetlamps — tsars / in crowns of gas — / began t...»
«With those broad brims, jackets long and spruce, / With notebooks full of verses — all your own, / So long ago to ashes you reduced, / Like blooms of lilac, off its branches blown. There, where you are, to form is nothing bound, / All things are blurred, disjoined, vague and shapeless. /...»