There is she, the fruit-bearing autumn!
Somewhat late they denounced her birth,
‘Cause for fifteen blessed springs I was molten
And could not rise myself from the earth.
Then I had recognized her, belated,
Pressed myself against her and embraced,
And the autumn to me, execrated,
Was in secret transmitting her grace.
Вот она, плодоносная осень!
Поздновато ее привели.
А пятнадцать блаженнейших весен
Я подняться не смела с земли.
Я так близко ее разгляыдела,
К ней припала, ее обняла,
А она в обреченное тело
Силу тайную тайно лила.
«Ah, hell, what a blizzard! / It’s hammering white nails into the roof. / But I’m not afraid — it’s in my fate / That my hapless heart nails me to you.»
«Snowy plain, white moon. / Our land is draped in a shroud. / Dressed in white, the birches cry in the woods. / Who perished here? Who died? Could it be me?»
«On the edge of a juniper grove / Autumn, the red mare, walks quietly / Dropping leaves from its mane on the ground. And the clang of its hoofs is heard / In the mist of the river banks / Where no wind goes round. But the wanderer, it raises the foliage / On the roads and rustles it, / ...»
«I quivered. I flared up, and then was extinguished. / I shook. I had made a proposal — but late, / Too late. I was scared, and she had refused me. / I pity her tears, am more blessed than a saint. I stepped into the square. I could be counted / Among the twice-born. Every leaf on the ...»