Forgotten? I’m not even wondered!
Forgotten was I hundred times,
And times, I’m in grave, were too hundred,
May be, my corps now there lies.
And Muse was too deafened and blinded,
Was rotting — a seed — in soils’ mesh,
To rise then to blue of the Highland
Like Phoenix from blackness of ash
Забудут? — вот чем удивили!
Меня забывали сто раз,
Сто раз я лежала в могиле,
Где, может быть, я и сейчас.
А Муза и глохла и слепла,
В земле истлевала зерном,
Чтоб после, как Феникс из пепла,
В эфире восстать голубом.
«Separation has this lofty meaning: / if love lasts years, / if but a day it takes, / loveТs just a dream / and weТre a moment dreaming, / and whether early, whether late the waking, / the time must finally arrive when we awake.»
«Melting in the air above the valley, / distant bells are chiming / like flocks of flapping cranes, / dying away in the rustle of leaves, / bright, like the swelling sea of spring, / crystal-like, like day at a distance, / while faster, quieter, / shadow lies around the valley.»
«I love a thunder — storm at the beginning of May, / when spring’s first thunder, / as though play, in a frolic, / rumbles in the blue sky. The young peals of thunder rattle. / Now it is drizzling, / dust is flying, pearls are hanging, / and the sun is gilding the treads. A swift to...»
«I love a thunder-storm in May / When here the first spring’s early thunder, / As though a joyful part of play, / Roars in the blue sky in its grandeur. Being strong and young, it’s thundering, / Look, rain has started, dust is flying, / The rainy pearls have hung as strings, / The s...»