No letter came for me today:
Did he forget or go away thereafter,
The spring is like a trill of silver laughter
The boats are bobbing in the bay.
No letter came for me today…
He was with me not very long ago,
So much in love, so gentle and all mine,
But that was still the white of wintertime,
Now spring is here, with poison in its woe
He was with me not very long ago…
I hear: the fiddle bow is trembling and light,
It beats, it beats as if from deathly ache,
And I’m afraid now that my heart will break
And leave unfinished tender lines I write…
Сегодня мне письма не принесли:
Забыл он написать или уехал;
Весна как трель серебряного смеха,
Качаются в заливе корабли.
Сегодня мне письма не принесли…
Он был со мной еще совсем недавно,
Такой влюбленный, ласковый и мой,
Но это было белою зимой,
Теперь весна, и грусть весны отравна,
Он был со мной еще совсем недавно…
Я слышу: легкий трепетный смычок,
Как от предсмертной боли, бьется, бьется,
И страшно мне, что сердце разорвется,
Не допишу я этих нежных строк…
«My sister — life — in a flood of spring rain / Has bruised herself blue all around us today, / But people in watches seem peevish and vain / And bite so politely, like vipers in hay. The old have their motives for such goings on, / Your motives moat likely are silly, I'll bet: / That ...»
«On pavements I will pound them out / Of sun and glass combined; / In winter, let the loft resound / As mildewed corners read my lines. The attic will itself declaim, / With bow to wintry window frame, / And up to ledge and roof will rise / A leap of wonders, woes, and signs. A month an...»
«My age, my beast, who can / Gaze into your pupils / And with his blood cement / The vertebrae of two centuries? Blood the Builder gushes / From the throat of earthly things, / The parasite must tremble / On the threshold of new days. A creature drags its backbone / As long as it's al...»
«They don't wait for letters, / For a letter they wait. / A shred of rag / Around a braid / Of glue. Within — a word. / And happiness. And this - is all. Thus they don't wait for joy, / Thus they wait for the end: / A soldier's salute / And into the chest — lead / Three pieces...»