The poet can’t be too sad
Or, worse still, too sly.
For general understanding,
The poet must be open wide.
The footlights in front of him,
Bare and bright, deathly;
The cold blaze of limelight
Branding his face.
But every reader is a secret,
A buried treasure, of sorts —
Even the last to come,
And remaining a lifelong mute.
There’s the one nature keeps from us
Whenever she feels like it;
There’s the one who weeps helplessly
At the prearranged hour.
And there (darkness,
shadows, chilly air) —
And there — the unknown eyes
That speak to me till dawn.
About some things they rebuke me,
About others they agree.
And so it goes, like a silent confession,
The flow of our warm exchange.
Life on earth is short,
Our given sphere constricted,
But the poet’s unknown friend
Is constant and eternal.
Не должен быть очень несчастным
И, главное, скрытным. О, нет! —
Чтоб быть современнику ясным,
Весь настежь распахнут поэт.
И рампа торчит под ногами,
Всё мертвенно, пусто, светло,
Лайм-лайта[1] позорное пламя
Его заклеймило чело.
А каждый читатель как тайна,
Как в землю закопанный клад,
Пусть самый последний, случайный,
Всю жизнь промолчавший подряд.
Там всё, что природа запрячет,
Когда ей угодно, от нас.
Там кто-то безпомощно плачет
В какой-то назначенный час.
И сколько там сумрака но́чи,
И тени, и сколько прохлад,
Там те незнакомые очи
До света со мной говорят,
За что-то меня упрекают
И в чём-то согласны со мной…
Так исповедь льётся немая,
Беседы блаженнейший зной.
Наш век на земле быстротечен
И тесен назначенный круг,
А он неизменен и вечен —
Поэта неведомый друг.
«1 Clad in the golden dust of evening / An August day did quietly melt. / The ringing streetcars rushed onwards / And people went. I went along a quiet side street / Without aim, absent-mindedly. / And I remember how the church bells / Sang quietly. I decided all things on the way / ...»
«2 When he did live everyone loved him / Eternal loyalty did vow, / Carry the wreaths out of the lilies / Onto fresh snow. Over his miserable lodgings / For a brief minute go slow / That he would not for too long shiver / On this first snow. Warm, melt the icy blood inside him / With...»
«The leaves are scattered above your tombstone / And winter's smell. / Listen, the dead one, listen, O dear one: / You're my own still. You laugh! — Moon is high - in the roadside cabin / Full of charm. / My — so undoubted and unchanging — / Like this arm. To hospital doors with ...»
« Here's your roses — pull your hands toward them — / Having gone farther than the sea, dear friend! / My dear friend, having with you born out / The most precious treasures of the land. I am robbed and deceived — There's no letter, / No ring in my memory! / How the features are...»