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.
«Talk is hushed. I tread the boards. / Leaning on the post of the door, / Distantly I catch the stir / Of what’s happening in this age. Darkly night admonishes / With a thousand lenses trained. / Abba Father, if Thou wouldst, / Bear this chalice past my lips. I adore Thy strict design...»
«What tune is it? It’s dark. Getting on to three. / Again, apparently, I’m not to close my eyes. / The village herdsman will crack his whip at dawn. / Cold air will blow in at the window Which overlooks the yard. / And I’m alone. / Not true. With all / The penetrating wave of your w...»
«Physicists are somehow much in honor; / Lyricists are somehow pushed aside. / It’s not a question of cold calculation; / It’s just a question of universal law. / It seems we’ve failed to find out what / We should have discovered long ago! / It seems our wings are rather weak — / ...»
«Dante’s tomb. Quietly and solemnly / we enter here — tempo andante. / We can’t well explain it, / but we understand: Dante... Dante... Dante — Dante, and yet we are no more / than what we are. There’s a frontier here. / Feeling no envy, pain, we enter / the tomb, crumpling our...»