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.
«The crimson light of dawn is woven in the lake. / In the woods, the grouses are crying out, awake. An oriole weeps loud, hidden in the tree. / Only, I’m not crying — filled with ecstasy. You will surely meet me, later on today, / We will sit together on fresh stacks of hay. Like a bloom...»
«Farewell, my friend. Please, let me go. / With the heart, you're beating in my chest. / We are parting now, and we know — / It's for good. One day we'll find it best. Farewell, my friend — no shaking hands, no crying. / Do not sadden your eyebrows too much. / There's nothing new abou...»
«Farewell, my friend, and take it easy. / You are in my heart, my dear. Our odd / But predestined parting and the autumn’s withering / Promise the reunion afterward. / / Farewell, my friend, no words, no crying / Don’t be sad, and, please, don’t wrinkle your brows. / There is not...»
«Farewell, my good friend, farewell. / In my heart, forever, you’ll stay. / May the fated parting foretell / That again we’ll meet up someday. Let no words, no handshakes ensue, / No saddened brows in remorse, — / To die, in this life, is not new, / And living’s no newer, of cour»