Over the wooded banks,
In the hour of evening quiet,
Under the tents are song and bustle
And the fires are scattered.
Thee I greet, O happy race !
I recognize thy blazes,
I myself at other times
These tents would have followed.
With the early rays to-morrow
Shall disappear your freedom's trace,
Go you will — but not with you
Longer go shall the bard of you.
He alas, the changing lodgings,
And the pranks of days of yore
Has forgot for rural comforts
And for the quiet of a home.
Над лесистыми брегами,
В час вечерней тишины,
Шум и песни под шатрами,
И огни разложены.
Здравствуй, счастливое племя!
Узнаю твои костры;
Я бы сам в иное время
Провождал сии шатры.
Завтра с первыми лучами
Ваш исчезнет вольный след,
Вы уйдёте — но за вами
Не пойдет уж ваш поэт.
Он бродящие ночлеги
И проказы старины
Позабыл для сельской неги
И домашней тишины.
«Snowing on, snowing on. / On a windowsill, the flower / Of geranium's reaching out for / Starlets of the snow beyond. Snowing on and all’s in chaos, / All's engaged into a twirl: / Wooden footsteps of back stairs / And a snowbound crossroad turn. Snowing on, snowing on. / Like inst...»
«Beneath the willow wound round with ivy / we take cover from the worst / of the storm, with a greatcoat round / our shoulders and my hands around your waist. I’ve got it wrong. That isn’t ivy / entwined in the bushes round / the wood, but hops. You intoxicate me! / Let’s spread th...»
«Dear, I ventured out of the house late this evening, merely / for a breath of fresh air from the ocean not far away. / The sun was smoldering low like a Chinese fan in a gallery / and a cloud reared up its huge lid like a Steinway. A quarter century back you craved curry and dates from Sen...»
«Falling snow leaves the world outnumbered. / At such times, the Pinkertons lose their mind, / and you catch yourself wherever you’ve wandered / by the prints that you've left behind. / Don’t expect a reward, this will not get you far; / the precinct’s din is reduced to naught. / ...»