Striking clock welcomes autumn to town:
This year notably heavy and hard,
Fallen fruit hits the ground, and the count
Is the number of fruit in the yard.
With this music, important and clear,
Who repeats that the clock must still go?
The old garden performs with no fear
Looking strangely indifferent though.
Nature’s downcast mood looking tender,
Love and kinship get easy to see.
As if you were no random bystander,
But the culprit of its jubilee.
Бьют часы, возвестившие осень:
тяжелее, чем в прошлом году,
ударяется яблоко оземь —
столько раз, сколько яблок в саду.
Этой музыкой, внятной и важной,
кто твердит, что часы не стоят?
Совершает поступок отважный,
но как будто бездействует сад.
Всё заметней в природе печальной
выраженье любви и родства,
словно ты — не свидетель случайный,
а виновник ее торжества.
«There arc the delicate pink ovals / On which the mists of morning flood, / And in unique bouquets unwinding / Steel-colored flowers bloom and bud. For nomad flics they are temptation; / Their gloss hides poisons' virulence... / Intrusive, variegated, idle, / The bare facets of existence...»
«Oh, how often I feel the burden I have hoarded / Of smudged, anemic days and many poisoned nights! / You, cards, docs anything exist that’s more attractive / And at the same time more banal and full of frights! But you are frightful, too, with a hangover’s frailty, / Preferred before al...»
«With blare of brass a funeral / Procession slowly walks... / A wax-like nose sticks gruesomely / Up from the coffin-box. Did he only want some more air... / Inside his empty chest? / The latest snow was dingy white; / The crumbed road rough — at best. And only sleet, the turgid sleet...»
«Of all the things which tempt me, I’ll remember / No, not your body - rippling like a spring, / And not your crimson smile with its wet shimmer / But that cold serpent of your suffering. So in a ballroom - banal, many-colored, / Sometimes when spirit-stirring waltzes play, / I conjure i...»