The evening sky is gold and vast.
I’m soothed by April’s cool caress.
You’re late. Too many years have passed, —
I’m glad to see you, nonetheless.
Come closer, sit here by my side,
Be gentle with me, treat me kind:
This old blue notebook — look inside —
I wrote these poems as a child.
Forgive me that I felt forsaken,
That grief and angst was all I knew.
Forgive me that I kept mistaking
Too many other men for you.
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.
«I heard from the garden a woman singing, / But I… I gazed at the moon. My thoughts never wondered about that woman — / Since I fell in love with the moon. No stranger am I to the beautiful goddess — / I do sense her gaze in return. And neither tree branches or bats in the darkness / ...»
«As a child, I liked big, / Honey-scented meadows, / Groves, dry grass, / And in the grass, bovine horns. Every wayside shrub shouted / To me: “I’m playing with you, / Pass me by carefully / And you shall know who I am!” Only the savage autumn wind, / Howling, would stop playing...»
«I loved the great meadows / and their honey scent / and clumps of trees, and dry grass / and bull’s horns in the grass. Every dusty bush along the road / shouted, “I’m playing with you! / Walk around me, watch out, / and you’ll see who I really am!” Only the fierce autumn win...»
«I remember an ancient artists’ prayer: / Keep us, Lord, from students Who push our wretched genius / toward the blasphemy of new revelations. Honest and open enemies we can deal with, / but this kind hangs in our footsteps And smiles, and laughs, as we fight — until / Peter forswears,...»