At the new moon, he walked out,
The friend I loved. I’ll be okay!
“Tightrope dancer,” He joked loud,
“How will you survive till May?”
As to a brother, I replied then,
Without gripes or jealousy,
But four new cloaks just aren’t likely
To replace this loss for me.
Let there be danger where I walk,
The way of grief fills me with dread…
The bottom of my shoes are chalked,
My Chinese parasol shines red!
The orchestra plays gleefully,
And lips are smiling with delight,
And yet the heart, the heart can see
The fifth lodge is unoccupied.
Меня покинул в новолунье
Мой друг любимый. Ну так что ж!
Шутил: «Канатная плясунья!
Как ты до мая доживёшь?»
Ему ответила, как брату,
Я, не ревнуя, не ропща,
Но не заменят мне утрату
Четыре новые плаща.
Пусть страшен путь мой, пусть опасен,
Ещё страшнее путь тоски…
Как мой китайский зонтик красен,
Натерты мелом башмачки!
Оркестр весёлое играет,
И улыбаются уста.
Но сердце знает, сердце знает,
Что ложа пятая пуста!
«The steamers cool in quiet channel’s reaches, / Coagulating inky water leaches, / The leaden whiteness plunges into dark, / And if from us the earth has really sickened / Then now her faint recovery finds its spark — / The splash of stars above the snow has quickened, / And now desce...»
«America and Europe will no longer be, / And royal parks and streets of Moscow too — / When frenzy of atomic mad hysteria’s spree / Will spray it all an iridescent blue. Then tenderly will stretch above the placid sea / An all-forgiving and transparent smoke... / And He who might have ...»
«At once my speech and mind are glazing, / As with one eye I’m on you gazing: / For in my head there’s but one eye. / And should the fates be so desiring / That I’d a hundred to espy / They would be fixed on you, untiring.»
«To Petersburg, then Paris too / I find I’m carried by the ocean. / I see them, and I listen, through / Fog’s shroud and timbrel’s loud commotion — With nightingales now shines the night, / Like melting snow, the stars have vanished / And souls — that can’t escape their plight...»