Her tears affected none —
the tears she had not shed.
Against an ostrich fan
her pallid cheek she laid.
Admirers in the stalls
screwed up a handkerchief:
where crimson curtain palls
her hands brought white relief.
They knew how warm the jewel in
her imitation ring
camellia's endless cool in
her white hands wintering.
But how resigned and fleeting
the handkerchief slipped down
how calm the heart was beating
oblivious of the pain.
People forgave it as
the curtain fell afar:
pale yellow rose bouquets
were piled backstage for her.
Holding the roses, scarce
a petal could she see:
down her cheeks ran the tears
dry tears of mastery.
Никто слезам ее не верил,
и слез она не пролила.
На страусовый белый веер
она щекою прилегла.
Ее поклонники в партере
смотрели, комкая платки,
как на малиновой портьере
белели две ее руки.
Они-то знали жар каменьев
в ее притворных перстеньках
и вечный холодок камелий,
зимующий в ее руках.
Но так смертельно и покорно
платочек выпадал из рук,
и сердце билось так покойно,
не замечая этих мук.
Ему прощали люди это,
и падал занавес вдали,
и бледно-желтых роз букеты
в ее уборную несли.
Она держала эти розы
и различала их едва,
а по щекам катились слезы,
сухие слезы мастерства.
«Now dry thy eyes, and shed no tears. / In heaven's straw-pale meadows veers / Aquarius, and earthward peers, / His emptied vessel overturning. No storming snows, no clouds that creep / Across the sheer pure emerald steep, / Whence, thinly-drawn, a ray darts deep / As a keen lance with e...»
«Night was done. We rose and after / Washing, dressing, — kissed with laughter, — / After all the sweet night knows. / Lilac breakfast cups were clinking / While we sat like brothers drinking / Tea, — and kept our dominoes. And our dominoes smiled greeting, / And our eyes avoided m...»
«Dying is sweet / On the battle-field / In the hissing of arrows and spears, / When the trumpet sounds / And the sun of noon / Is shining, / Dying for country's glory / And hearing around you: / "Hero, farewell!" / Dying is sweet / For an old, venerable man / In the house / On...»
«Below the sultry storm that seemed to lower, / An alien force, again I heard the call / Of my mysterious mate: the prisoned power / Of old dreams flared and flickered in its fall. And with a cry of horror and of dolor — / As of an eagle in an iron vise — / My spirit shook its cage in ...»