The anxious days will not recede,
And stronger grows the smell of rye.
If you were laid here at my feet,
My darling, lie.
In the trees, orioles shrill all day,
Only the night breaks this routine.
It’s fun to fan lively wasps away
From your eyes of green.
The bells jingle as a coach goes by, —
A sound so memorable, so light.
I’ll sing a song, so you don’t cry,
About the parting night.
Каждый день по-новому тревожен,
Все сильнее запах спелой ржи.
Если ты к ногам моим положен,
Ласковый, лежи.
Иволги кричат в широких кленах,
Их ничем до ночи не унять.
Любо мне от глаз твоих зеленых
Ос веселых отгонять.
На дороге бубенец зазвякал —
Памятен нам этот легкий звук.
Я спою тебе, чтоб ты не плакал,
Песенку о вечере разлук.
«Falling snow leaves the world outnumbered. / At such times, the Pinkertons lose their mind, / and you catch yourself wherever you’ve wandered / by the prints that you've left behind. / Don’t expect a reward, this will not get you far; / the precinct’s din is reduced to naught. / ...»
«I was but what you’d brush / with your palm, what your leaning / brow would hunch to in evening’s / raven-black hush. I was but what your gaze / in that dark could distinguish: / a dim shape to begin with, / later — features, a face. It was you, on my right, / on my left, with ...»
«I’ve raised a statue to myself that’s some! / To shameful century’s its back to run. / To its lost love that’s turned with stony face. / Like cycle wheel is bent its stony chest. / And buttocks is to sea of half-truth faced. / And if I would with nice landscape well dressed, / Wh...»
«In villages God does not live only / in icon corners, as the scoffers claim, / but plainly, everywhere. He sanctifies / each roof and pan, divides each double door. / In villages God acts abundantly- / cooks lentils in iron pots on Saturdays, / dances a lazy jig in flickering flames, / ...»