Again Chopin’s polonaise is being played,
Oh my God! — how many fans,
And downcast eyes, and tender mouths,
But how close is betrayal, how it rustles.
Music’s shadow flickered on the wall,
But did not touch the greenish moonlight.
Oh, how many times I turned cold here
And someone terrible nodded at me in the window.
...................
And how frightful the gaze of nose-less statues,
But leave and do not fight for me
And do not pray so bitterly about me.
...................
And the voice from 1913
Again shouts: I’m here, I’m yours again...
I need neither fame nor freedom,
I know too well... but nature remains silent,
And it smelled of sepulchral dampness.
Опять приходит полонез Шопена.
О, Боже мой! — как много вееров,
И глаз потупленных, и нежных ртов,
Но как близка, как шелестит измена.
Тень музыки мелькнула по стене,
Но прозелени лунной не задела.
О, сколько раз вот здесь я холодела
И кто-то страшный мне кивал в окне.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
И как ужасен взор безносых статуй,
Но уходи и за меня не ратуй,
И не молись так горько обо мне.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
И голос из тринадцатого года
Опять кричит: я здесь, я снова твой...
Мне ни к чему ни слава, ни свобода,
Я слишком знаю... но молчит природа,
И сыростью пахнуло гробовой.
«Waving a bough full of fragrance, / In the dark, with pure good to sup, / The water the storm had made giddy / Went running from cup to cup. From chalice to chalice rolling, / It slid along two and hung, / One drop of agate, within them. / Shining and shy it clung, Over the meadowsweet...»
«I should have seen the sign: “Fresh paint”, / But useless to advise / The careless soul, and memory's stained / With cheeks, calves, hands, lips, eyes. More than all failure, all success, / I loved you, for your skill / In whitening the yellowed world / As white cosmetics will. Lis...»
«To fly off, a ripe pear in a storm. / With one leaf clinging on as it must. / Mad devotion! It quitted the branch! / It will choke with its throat full of dust! A ripe pear, more aslant than the wind. / What devotion! “You'll bray me? You're brash!" / Look! In beauty the thunder-spent s...»
«9 The piano, aquiver, will lick the foam from its lips. / The frenzy will wrench you, fell you, and you, undone. / Will whisper: “Darling!" “No," I shall cry, “what’s this? / In the presence of music!" Of nearness there is none Like twilight’s, with the chords tossed into the firep...»