The lazy artist-boor is blacking
The genius's picture with his stuff,
Without any sense a-making
His low drawing above.
But alien paints, in stride of years,
Are falling down as a dust,
The genius's masterpiece appears
With former brilliance to us.
Like this, the darkly apparitions
Are leaving off my tortured heart,
And it again revives the visions
Of virgin days I left behind.
Художник-варвар кистью сонной
Картину гения чернит
И свой рисунок беззаконный
Над ней бессмысленно чертит.
Но краски чуждые, с летами,
Спадают ветхой чешуёй;
Созданье гения пред нами
Выходит с прежней красотой.
Так исчезают заблужденья
С измученной души моей,
И возникают в ней виденья
Первоначальных, чистых дней.
«Cast-iron railings, / a bed of pine. / And jealousy? / So sweet it’s gone. With sobs and prayers / my bed was made. / Walk at will now, / God at your side! Your ears not stung / by ranting words. / No candle-burning / until the dawn. We won our peace: / clear days and dear. ...»
«A cast-iron fence, / A bed of pine, / How sweet that I no longer / Need to be jealous. A bed’s made for me / With sobbing and prayer; / Now go wherever on earth / You wish, God bless you! Now your ears won’t burn / With frenzied speech, / Now a candle won’t flicker / Till t...»
«I bow to them as if over a cup, / Those innumerable precious lines — / This is the black, tender news / Of our youth stained with blood. The air is the air I breathed / That night above the abyss, / That night of iron emptiness, / When all calls and cries were vain. How rich the scen...»
«Like a bird, the echo answers me. / B.P. 1 A unique voice fell silent yesterday; / our woodland companion has gone his way, / changed into life-giving ears of grain / or – as he liked to sing – into the finest rain. / And all the flowers in all the world / burst into bloom to greet...»