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...
«Whoever you might be, my neighbor sad, / I love you as my young years’ dear comrade, / A friend by accident or fate; / Though circumstance’s craft and treachery, / You are sequestered from my company / By wall and secret separate. When the first ruddy streaks ...»
«Since the timeless tribunal / Gave me a prophet’s sight, / The eyes of people reveal / Signs of hate and deceit. So I proclaimed the truth / Of innocence of love I’d learned: / Whoever held my trust and faith / Cast stones like I was mad. I covered myself with ashes, / Like a beg...»
«Just in front of my window / Stands a birch-tree white / All covered with snow / Glimmering silver bright. The snow on its branches / Sparkles all around / Pretty tassels dangling. / Silence. Not a sound. And the birch-tree slumbers / Standing all alone. / And the snow glimmers / ...»
«The angel was flying through sky in midnight, / And softly he sang in his flight; / And clouds, and stars, and the moon in a throng / Hearkened to that holy song. / He sang of the garden of God's paradise, / Of innocent ghosts in its shade; / He sang of the God, and his vivacious praise ...»