I won’t beg for your love.
It’s safely laid aside….
I won’t be penning jealous
Letters to your bride.
But be wise, take my advice:
Give her my poems to read,
Give her my photos beside —
Be kind to the newly-wed!
Oh, knowledge is better for geese,
Feeling they’ve won completely,
Than sweet companionable speech,
Or a tender first-night memory…
And when you’ve spent all your
Kopecks of joy with your dear friend,
And your spirit’s sated with it all,
And suddenly you’re ashamed —
Don’t come — I’ll fail to know you —
To me, night’s crestfallen guest.
For how could I help you?
I’ve no cure for happiness.
Я не любви твоей прошу.
Она теперь в надежном месте...
Поверь, что я твоей невесте
Ревнивых писем не пишу.
Но мудрые прими советы:
Дай ей читать мои стихи,
Дай ей хранить мои портреты —
Ведь так любезны женихи!
А этим дурочкам нужней
Сознанье полное победы,
Чем дружбы светлые беседы
И память первых нежных дней...
Когда же счастия гроши
Ты проживешь с подругой милой
И для пресыщенной души
Все станет сразу так постыло —
В мою торжественную ночь
Не приходи. Тебя не знаю.
И чем могла б тебе помочь?
От счастья я не исцеляю.
«The river-time, in its fast currents, / Bears away all people’s deals, / And drowns kingdoms, kings, and countries, / In the forgetfulness’ abyss. And if, due pipes’ or lyres’ greatness, / Shall anything remain of that, / It shall be gobbled by the endless, / And shall not dodge...»
«He’s risen — Highest God — to do the judgment, fair, / Of the earthly ones in their whole band; / How long — he sad — how long will you else spare / The unjust and wicked people in your land. Your sacred duty is to make support for laws, / To make no favor to the strongest ones...»
«Like a gad-fly, the others’ woe’s: / You’d wave away it — still back it goes, / You’d go out — it’s late to go, / It’s in the air that’s hot and raw. / You’d try to breathe — it strangles you here. / It is possessed — it does not hear, / It comes… in nights...»
«You say to me that I am mute — / But you’re the jealous one and loud. / I’m not a wolf nor Paris — wood, / But life from life can’t be seized out. / Yes, I’ve been there, where dark and gray, / Like a pine forest of old stone, / Making great noise, Great City stays — / ...»