To fly off, a ripe pear in a storm.
With one leaf clinging on as it must.
Mad devotion! It quitted the branch!
It will choke with its throat full of dust!
A ripe pear, more aslant than the wind.
What devotion! “You'll bray me? You're brash!"
Look! In beauty the thunder-spent storm
Has blazed out, crumbled down — sunk to ash.
And our birthplace is burned to a crisp.
Say, fledgling, where now is your nest?
O my leaf, with the fears of a finch!
My shy silk, why still fight and protest?
Rest in concrement, song, unafraid.
Whither now? All striving is naught.
Ah, “here": mortal adverb! The throb
Of concrescence could give it no thought.
Спелой грушею в бурю слететь
Об одном безраздельном листе.
Как он предан — расстался с суком —
Сумасброд — задохнется в сухом!
Спелой грушею, ветра косей.
Как он предан, — «Меня не затреплет!»
Оглянись: отгремела в красе,
Отплыла, осыпалась — в пепле.
Нашу родину буря сожгла.
Узнаешь ли гнездо свое, птенчик?
О мой лист, ты пугливей щегла!
Что ты бьешься, о шелк мой застенчивый?
О, не бойся, приросшая песнь!
И куда порываться еще нам?
Ах, наречье смертельное «здесь» —
Невдомек содроганью сращенному.
«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’...»