High in the sky, the cloud grew grayer,
Like a stretched out squirrel pelt.
«I don’t care,» he said, «Snow Maiden,
That in March your frame will melt.»
My hands grew cold in the downy muff.
I felt scared, confused and wary.
How to bring back the weeks of his love
That passed, so transient and airy!
I want no vengeance or bitter grief,
Let me die with the blizzard’s last blitz.
I cast fortunes about him on Epiphany Eve.
In January, I was still his.
Высоко в небе облачко серело,
Как беличья расстеленная шкурка.
Он мне сказал: «Не жаль, что ваше тело
Растает в марте, хрупкая Снегурка!»
В пушистой муфте руки холодели.
Мне стало страшнно, стало как-то смутно.
О, как вернуть вас, быстрые недели
Его любви, воздушной и минутной!
Я не хочу ни горечи, ни мщенья,
Пускай умру с последней белой вьюгой.
О нем гадала я в канун Крещенья.
Я в январе была его подругой.
«I thought I knew all the paths / And precipices of insomnia, / But this is a trumpet-blast / And like a charge of cavalry. / I enter an empty house / That used to be someone’s home, / It’s quiet, only white shadows / In a stranger’s mirrors swim. / And what is that in a mist? ...»
«But I warn you, / I am living for the last time. / Not as a swallow, not as a maple, / Not as a reed nor as a star, / Not as water from a spring, / Not as bells in a tower — / Shall I return to trouble you / Nor visit other people’s dreams / With lamentation. »
«He loved three things alone: / White peacocks, evensong, / Old maps of America. / He hated children crying, / And raspberry jam with his tea, / And womanish hysteria. / …And he had married me. »
«The pillow hot / On both sides, / The second candle / Dying, the ravens / Crying. Haven’t / Slept all night, too late / To dream of sleep… / How unbearably white / The blind on the white window. / Good morning, morning! »