Irreparably white the page. Long hours
Spent vainly at a desk. Of warmth and Nice
Smell the mimosa's tiny, yellow flowers.
Caught by the moon's white ray, a large bird flies.
It's bedtime, and my long hair plaiting tightly —
As though it mattered!- out the window I,
No longer sad, my heart a little lighter,
Stare at the sea, the sandy slopes, the sky.
What power has he, one who will refrain
From asking for so much as tenderness!
I cannot lift my eyelids when my name
He speaks, and am all pain and weariness.
Вечерние часы перед столом,
Непоправимо белая страница.
Мимоза пахнет Ниццей и теплом.
В луче луны летит большая птица.
И, туго косы на ночь заплетя,
Как будто завтра нужны будут косы,
В окно гляжу я, больше не грустя,
На море, на песчаные откосы.
Какую власть имеет человек,
Который даже нежности не просит!
Я не могу поднять усталых век,
Когда мое он имя произносит.
«The poems mine, created early, so / That I hadn't known, I'm a poet, yet / And dropped, as drops from fountains' flows, / As sparkles from jets, As little imps, that suddenly braked through in / The dreamy sanctuary, where an incest roams, / The poems mine, about youth and ruin, / Unrea...»
«That was amidst the early spring, / The grass was slightly grown, / The heat was mild, and fast were springs, / And light through groves was shone. The shepherd’s horn, in early morn, / Was not yet singing loud, / The frugal fern, still in curls woven, / Was standing on wood’s groun...»
«Amidst the noisy ball, in Hell / Of everyday distress, / I’ve seen you, but the secret’s veil / Was covering your face. Your fair eyes were sad and bright, / And voice was so sweet, / As sound of a pipe apart / Or murmur of the sea. I’ve liked your fine and slender waist, / And...»
«In desert, withered and burned, / On ground that is dry and sultry, / Anchar, alone in the world, / Stands like an awful, silent sentry. The nature of the thirsty land, / Has borne him on the day of terror, / And flesh of roots and boughs, dead, / Was filled with venom blood forever. T...»