Blows the swan wind,
The blue sky’s smeared
With blood; the anniversary
Of your love’s first days draws near.
You have destroyed
My sorcery; like water the years
Have drifted by. Why
Aren’t you old, but as you were?
Your tender voice even more ringing...
Only your serene brow
Has taken from time’s wing
A scattering of snow.
Веет ветер лебединый,
Небо синее в крови.
Наступают годовщины
Первых дней твоей любви.
Ты мои разрушил чары,
Годы плыли, как вода.
Отчего же ты не старый,
А такой, как был тогда?
Даже звонче голос нежный,
Только времени крыло
Осенило славой снежной
Безмятежное чело.
«I’m sad, because I love you way too much to bear, / And I’m aware: the baleful rumor mill won’t spare / Your blooming youth. And soon your destiny will reckon / Your recompense for all blithe days for all sweet seconds. / With bitter tears and rueful sorrow you’ll repay. / I am sa...»
«What am I for, me, just a grain? / I'm living toiling hard with care, / For happiness I spend my life in vain, / I'm never pleased, weep on in my despair! What do I seek? Do I want more? / Where is my place? What am I for? There is a kin who die to seize / All proper answers in a blink. ...»
«I write for no quick reputation: / It is for fun, game, recreation, / For friends of mine, cute and sincere; / To mind the days that disappear.»
«Cease thy song, nightingale, / Here before my window! / Fly away, nightingale, / To my village grove. / And there light on the window / Of my sweetheart-love. / Sing to her there a song / Of my anguish, pain. / Say I wither, I die, / Here away from my lass, / As in autumn cold ra...»