It’s not your love I seek tonight.
It’s in a safe place now, it’s hidden…
Believe me that I haven’t written
Resentful letters to your bride.
But take this sensible suggestion:
Give her my poetry to read,
Give her my portraits for protection —
The groom must always be this sweet!
And yet, these fools, they need and chase
The sense of utter victory,
Much more than friendly company
And memories of first sweet days…
And once the last of bliss is spent
With your beloved in this heaven
And for the sated soul again
All suddenly becomes repellent —
In my triumphant night, don’t stray
Back to me. I won’t let you enter.
How could I help you anyway?
I have no cure for your contentment.
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.
«Cool Water gurgles in the river / and the mountains’ shadow lies on the fields / and light fades in the sky. And birds / are already flying in dreams. / And the yardman with the black moustache / stands all night by the gate / and under his dirty hat he scratches / the back of his he...»
«My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud, / but I am living; somewhere in the world / someone looks kindly on my life; far off / a distant fellow-man will read my words / and find my being; and, who knows, my soul / will raise an echo in his soul, and I / who found a friend in my own time...»
«This is how hunger begins: / first you wake in good cheer, / then weakness begins, / and then boredom, / and then comes the losss / of the power of swift reason / and then comes calm — / and then the horror.»
«Here’s the rain crashing down, / time has stopped. / The clocks go on helplessly knocking. / Grow, grass, you don’t need time. / Speak, Holy Spirit, you don’t need words.»