Under a broom, entwined by ivy,
From rain, we’re hiding for the time.
A cloak protects our shoulders slightly,
My arms, around you, intertwined.
No, I was wrong. Among these shrubs,
Not ivy, but green hop has widened.
So, should we spread this cloak, perhaps,
Over the grass for us to lie on?
Под ракитой, обвитой плющом,
От ненастья мы ищем защиты.
Наши плечи покрыты плащом,
Вкруг тебя мои руки обвиты.
Я ошибся. Кусты этих чащ
Не плющом перевиты, а хмелем.
Ну так лучше давай этот плащ
В ширину под собою расстелем.
«Be it fortune or misfortune / Trust the simple truth: / Never go back home in search of / our departed youth. Cindered ruins have been cleared / And the place restored. / Yet, we won't discover there / What we are looking for. Trips to yesteryear, oh brother, / I would forbid to all...»
«A tiny snake witch in the cove, / She lies in my heart's hidden corner. / But then she becomes a white dove / And coos on my sill with sweet murmur. She sparkles in moonlit snowflakes, / She smells of a violet flower, / But firmly and covertly takes / The peace of my soul in her power. ...»
«I built my wealthy home; it is a real feat, / All made of solid wood; no marble slab, no tiling, / My flowers, fountain, and vineyard seemed beguiling / To noble visitors, those of the royal suite. To fill my rooms with sun and air, as I like / Three heavy walls were taken down by my order,...»
«Poetry has to be strange / And senseless, vague, out of range, / And clear like glass, and also it / Must be as simple as day’s heat. Like moisture of a creek — clean / With everything alike and kin, / And branchy like a tree, alive, / And very brief like our life.»