The boy there, on the bagpipes playing,
The girl, who weaves herself a wreath,
Two forest paths that cross while straying,
The fire in the fields beneath —
I see it all. I witness it and stow
Deep in my heart, affectionately gentle.
There’s one thing only that I never know
And cannot even tenuously remember.
I do not ask for wisdom or for might.
Only a bit of fire’s warmth! I’m cold!
Winged or wingless, in the day or night,
The merry god won’t visit me at all.
И мальчик, что играет на волынке,
И девочка, что свой плетет венок,
И две в лесу скреcтившихся тропинки,
И в дальнем поле дальний огонек, —
Я вижу все. Я все запоминаю,
Любовно-кротко в сердце берегу.
Лишь одного я никогда не знаю
И даже вспомнить больше не могу.
Я не прошу ни мудрости, ни силы.
О, только дайте греться у огня!
Мне холодно! Крылатый иль бескрылый,
Веселый бог не посетит меня.
«The smokey blotches of the neighbours’ windows, / and windswept roses bending, drawing breath — / if I could think that life is but a dream, / that we cannot help waking after death. To wait in heaven — heaven is so blue — / to wait in that cool bliss without a care. / And then, ...»
«I still find charm in little accidental / trifles, empty little things — / say, in a novel without end or title, / or in this rose, now wilting in my hands. I like its moiré petals, dappled / with trembling silver drops of rain — / and how I found it on the sidewalk, / and how I’...»
«Where can I look, where can I go, / to find that almost Alpine snow, / all sacrificed so life can grow, / all turned by May to splash and flow, / to breath of dandelion and rose, / to mighty wave or shining billow — / into that foolish question posed / by François Villon long ago?»
«Led by what is shining, / the sleepwalker looks into a blank, / black is the death beneath him / and there’s no knowing / where the moon’s thin ledge / will slide him. The innocent are executed / in a universal night — / look the other way. / Look into cold nothing / and let...»