This evening's light is golden bright,
The April's coolness is so tender,
Though you are many years too late,
I still do welcome you to enter.
Right next to me why don't you sit
And look with happy eyes around.
This little notebook has in it
The poems written in my childhood.
Forgive me that I've lived and mourned,
And was not grateful for the sun rays...
Forgive me please, forgive me for
I have mistaken you for others...
Широк и жёлт вечерний свет,
Нежна апрельская прохлада.
Ты опоздал на много лет,
Но все-таки тебе я рада.
Сюда ко мне поближе сядь,
Гляди весёлыми глазами:
Вот эта синяя тетрадь —
С моими детскими стихами.
Прости, что я жила скорбя
И солнцу радовалась мало.
Прости, прости, что за тебя
Я слишком многих принимала.
«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...»
«At my cheerless table / I a-musing sit: / How is one to be / In the world alone? / I, a stalwart youth, / Have no wife, no mate; / I, a stalwart youth, / Want a loving friend. / Want a harrow, share; / Want a kindly hearth; / Want a barn well-stocked, / And a good plo...»
«Pull, my gray one, pull now! / Turning o’er the black clods, / Mother-earth will burnish / White the iron ploughshare. / / Blushing dawn, the fair one, / Lo! on the bright horizon; / From the waking woodland / Comes the sun in glory. / / Joyous rolls the ploughland! / ...»
«When from thy shame, degrading, dark, I drew / Thy fallen spirit out with words of flame; / And thou, with wringing hands, in anguish deep, / Didst curse the sin that compassed thee about; / When thou didst lash thy conscience, late and dull, / With story of thy past, confessing all ...»