Not the lyre of a lover
I’ll carry through my land
The rattle of a leper
Will sing in my hand.
Не лирою влюбленного
Иду пленять народ —
Трещотка прокаженного
В моей руке поет.
Успеете наахаться
И воя, и кляня.
Я научу шарахаться
Вас, смелых, от меня.
Я не искала прибыли
И славы не ждала,
Я под крылом у гибели
Все тридцать лет жила.
«The wind gathers storm clouds / above the sea’s gray plain. / Like black lightning the Stormy Petrel / flits between sea and cloud. / Now touching a wave with his wing, now shooting / like an arrow up into the clouds, he screams, / and the storm clouds hear joy / in the bird’s impe...»
«High above the silvery ocean winds are gathering the storm-clouds, and between the clouds and ocean proudly wheels the Stormy Petrel, like a streak of sable lightning. Now his wing the wave caresses, now he rises like an arrow, cleaving clouds and crying fiercely, while the clouds detect a rapture ...»
«A fairy once dwelt in a forest, / And bathed in its silvery streams; / One day she was caught by the fishers, / While morning was shedding its gleams. The fishers all scattered, affrighted, / But Marco, a fisherman young; / He kissed her, embraced, and caressed her, / So vigorous, youth...»
«Like other men, transfixed, / I want to serve you zealously, / Tell fortunes with the lips / Completely dry from jealousy. / A word does not suppress / This dryness spreading through, / Dense air is emptiness / For me without you. I want you now so awfully, / No longer jealous-green...»