The moon illuminates the eaves,
And skims the crests of waves at night…
The chilly hands of the marquise
Are fragrant, delicate and light.
“O Prince! — she curtsies and exhales, —
“In quadrille, you’re the vis-à-vis,” —
The mask conceals her turning pale
From burning love and ecstasy.
The entryway’s obscured by sloping
Poplar trees and hops that fell.
“Baghdad and Constantinople,
I will win for you, ma belle.”
“You are smiling so rarely,
That I’m frightened in advance!”
The cold pavilion is shady.
“Well then! Maybe, let us dance?”
They walk off and lanterns flicker
On the elm and maple trunks.
Clad in emerald, ladies bicker,
Betting gaily with the monks.
With azaleas, Pierrot,
Smirks and starts a friendly chat:
“Prince! Are you the one who broke
The feather on marquise’s hat?”
Луна освещает карнизы,
Блуждает по гребням реки…
Холодные руки маркизы
Так ароматны-легки.
«О принц! — улыбаясь, присела, —
В кадрили вы наш vis-à-vis»1, —
И томно под маской бледнела
От жгучих предчувствий любви.
Вход скрыл серебрящий тополь
И низко спадающий хмель.
«Багдад или Константинополь
Я вам завоюю, ma belle!»2
«Как вы улыбаетесь редко,
Вас страшно, маркиза, обнять!»
Темно и прохладно в беседке.
«Ну что же! пойдем танцевать?»
Выходят. На вязах, на кленах
Цветные дрожат фонари,
Две дамы в одеждах зеленых
С монахами держат пари.
И бледный, с букетом азалий,
Их смехом встречает Пьеро:
«Мой принц! О, не вы ли сломали
На шляпе маркизы перо?»
____
1. Визави (фр.)
2. Моя красавица! (фр.)
«For all, I thank Thee, I, the meek remitter: / For passion's secret torments without end, / The kiss of venom, and the tears too bitter, / The vengeful enemy, the slanderous friend, / The spirit's ardor on the desert squandered, / For every lash of life's deceiving thong; / I thank Thee ...»
«Silent I sit by the prison's high window, / Where through the bars the blue heavens are breaking. / Flecks in the azure, the free birds are playing; / Watching them fly there, my shamed heart is aching. But on my sinful lips never a prayer, / Never a song in the praise of my charmer; / Al...»
«A collapsed door in the deaf wall, / And the heaps of overturned stones, / And piled upon them scrap metal, / And the depths that unfurl below. / And white ashes fanned by the wind — / That's all: God's voice, "The dead will rise".»
«The poet teaches something, though / Not with the wisdom of his words, / A thing considerably more likely to / Either turn people off or to bore. Whether sweet or bitter, you will have / To test by tasting it on your own. Life; / We all have our own unkind fates: / He teaches us to kee...»