Sleep on a Summer’s Night
(Five Verses)
2
All morning from nine to two
A vexed spirit from the ozone rides
About the garden among snakes and rosemary
And the exhausted oleanders.
The white balcony turns blue.
Asleep — deserted by the muse — on all sides.
Hoary raspberry stalks stand and beyond them
Lies the violet ground of his preludes.
Who was whispering at supper?
Who gave a parting wave to the roses?
Once again Chopin sends out a dispatch,
A ballade that pines for reply.
All summer she is with diphtheria
And is not getting any better.
Now, is it the black keys or the blood
That after awhile make us turn from her?
A touch of a hand —
And half the universe — is alone,
And the fields out there are glowing
And breath is stifled by tobacco.
Сон в летнюю ночь
Пять стихотворений
2
Все утро с девяти до двух
Из сада шел томящий дух
Озона, змей и розмарина,
И олеандры разморило.
Синеет белый мезонин.
На мызе — сон, кругом — безлюдье.
Седой малинник, а за ним
Лиловый грунт его прелюдий.
Кому ужонок прошипел?
Кому прощально машет розан?
Опять депешею Шопен
К балладе страждущей отозван.
Когда ее не излечить,
Все лето будет в дифтерите.
Сейчас ли, черные ключи,
Иль позже кровь нам отворить ей?
Прикосновение руки —
И полвселенной — в изоляции,
И там плантации пылятся
И душно дышат табаки.
«Rock and rock me, starry boat! / My head is weary of breaking waves! For too long I’ve lost my moorings, — / My head is weary of thinking: Of hymns — of laurels — of heroes — of hydras, — / My head is weary of pretensions! Lay me out among grasses and pine-needles, — / My he...»
«How this matter came to an end / Neither love nor friendship can say. / With every passing day you reply less directly, / With every passing day you disappear more deeply. Until, you’re undisturbed by anything now, / — Only the tree riffles its branches — / As if you’ve fallen int...»
«Early yet — to no longer be! / Early yet — to no longer burn! / Tenderness! A brutal lash / Of Underworld encounters. However deep your inclination — / The sky — is a fathomless vat! / O, for such a love it’s / Early yet — to not feel wounded! Life is alive with jealousy! /...»
«I’ll be late to our fixed / Appointment. Having stopped spring / In time, into the bargain — I’ll be grey. / You’ve fixated too much on this! I’ll walk for years — and never falter / In my Ophelia’s taste for bitter rue! / I’ll walk through hills — and hayricks, / I’...»