All rules are incorrect,
all laws remain perverse,
until they’re firmly set
in well wrought lines of verse.
An age or era will
be merely a stretch of time
without a meaning until
it’s glorified in rhyme.
Until the poet’s «Yes!»,
entrusted by his pen
to print, award success
to this or that — till then
the jury will be out,
the verdict still in doubt.
Все правила — неправильны,
Законы — незаконны,
Пока в стихи не вправлены
И в ямбы — не закованы.
Период станет эрой.
Столетье — веком будет,
Когда его поэмой
Прославят и рассудят.
Пока на лист не ляжет
«Добро!» поэта,
Пока поэт не скажет,
Что он — за это,
До этих пор — не кончен спор.
«Look how marvelous it’s getting every hour / But my mother is so sad, I hear her groan, / — How come, you’re out there, my dear, / All alone, all alone? / / — From one end of April I head to another. / Stars have grown kinder, brighter in their beauty; / I’m just guarding...»
«Darkness has curtained my cheerless world, / Quiet as under the sea / Lady Majestic, here at my door? / Something I couldn’t foresee! The electricity here is dim, / Ceiling is dripping with tears. / Lady Majestic, well, all the same, / How did you venture in here? Oh, your arrival’...»
«When blizzards utter beastly roars, / Disgruntled and relentless, / Do not attempt to shut your doors, / Unlock your dwelling's entrance. If for a long and distant roam / You're summoned by an omen, / Do not forget to leave your home / Unlocked, and doors wide open. And on the night ...»
«You won't chase me away anytime: / They don't push away the spring! / With a finger you won't push me away: / I too tenderly sing before sleep! Never will you make me glorious: / Water for lips is my name! / You will never leave me either: / Door is open, empty is your home!»