When approaching River Inger
Glance did I at azure skies,
And recalled your gaze’s linger
And your wondrous deep blue eyes.
And although I was enchanted
Sadly by you, virgin fair,
And although an exile planted
Somewhere in the depths of Tver,
Dared I not to make prostration,
Lay before you all my cares,
Nor to cause you consternation
With my dim enamoured prayers.
Dreadfully inebriated
By the hops of worldly show,
I’ll forget, intoxicated,
How your lovely features glow,
And your poise and slender motion
And the care in all you say,
Calm, displayed without a notion,
Knowing laugh and glance’s stray.
And if not, this path I’ll follow
To your peaceful native parts,
Reappear like the swallow,
Love until November starts.
Подъезжая под Ижоры,
Я взглянул на небеса
И воспомнил ваши взоры,
Ваши синие глаза.
Хоть я грустно очарован
Вашей девственной красой,
Хоть вампиром именован
Я в губернии Тверской,
Но колен моих пред вами
Преклонить я не посмел
И влюбленными мольбами
Вас тревожить не хотел.
Упиваясь неприятно
Хмелем светской суеты,
Позабуду, вероятно,
Ваши милые черты,
Легкий стан, движений стройность,
Осторожный разговор,
Эту скромную спокойность,
Хитрый смех и хитрый взор.
Если ж нет... по прежню следу
В ваши мирные края
Через год опять заеду
И влюблюсь до ноября.
«My verse written so early in my life / I didn't know I was a poet yet, / My verse which burst off, like drops from a fountain, / Or sparks from rocket jets; And burst like tiny demons through the holy / Sanctum where sleep and incense come together; / My verse that went on about death and...»
«How's life with the other woman? / Simpler, yeah? A stroke of oars / by a long coastline, and even / memory of me unmoors as a floating island (in the / sky, not on the waters)! Poor / spirits, souls! You should be solely / sisters and not paramours. How's life with an ordinary / ...»
«Chénier went up to meet the guillotine, / And I'm alive. That is a dreadful sin. / There are times that steel over everyone. / He is no bard who sings as bullets spin. / He is no father, trembling at the gate, / Whose arms rip battle-armor off his son. / There are times when the sun ...»
«Ah, longing for the homeland's air... / A languor long exposed as hooey! / I absolutely do not care / about where I am absolutely alone. Nor down what street of stone / I shlep a simple shopping basket / to a house that doesn't know it's home / any more than hospital o...»