The music of the soul is ever fainter,
the music of the attack is ever more resonant.
But don’t hasten (to comment) on that:
so as not to be deceived in the darkness,
that the music of the attack is more resonant,
and the music of the soul ever fainter.
the louder is the music of the attacks,
the sweeter is the honey of the lights of home.
And this was only that way
in my yesterday’s wanderings:
the sweeter the honey of the lights of home,
the louder the music of the attacks.
From out of the depths of years gone by
more sure than ever before,
the more resonant the music of victories,
the more bitter is every loss,
the surer than ever before,
from the depths of years gone by.
And this is all in our blood,
even though we were not taught it:
the more sublime the music of love,
the louder is the music of grief,
the louder is the music of grief,
the more pure is the music of love.
Все глуше музыка души,
все звонче музыка атаки.
Но ты об этом не спеши:
не обмануться бы во мраке,
что звонче музыка атаки,
что глуше музыка души.
Чем громче музыка атак,
тем слаще мед огней домашних,
и это было только так
в моих скитаниях вчерашних:
тем слаще мед огней домашних,
чем громче музыка атак.
Из глубины ушедших лет
еще вернее, чем когда-то —
чем громче музыка побед,
тем горше каждая утрата,
еще вернее, чем когда-то,
из глубины ушедших лет.
И это все у нас в крови,
хоть этому не обучали:
чем чище музыка любви,
тем громче музыка печали,
чем громче музыка печали,
тем выше музыка любви.
«In the evening realm / of the green spring, / A calm river winds / like a silvery string. / The forested hills / hug the red sun. / The golden horn / gives birth / to the moon; / In a tiny hut, / the ploughman / is back from the / furrowed hills. / The nightingale / trill...»
«The blizzard buried the hedge, / Behind the window the snow still falls / While on the warm stove ledge / An old man his youth recalls. "Eh, there were good seasons / In my life — nothing went wrong, / I had no worries, but the reasons / To carouse and sing the songs, And now what li...»
«On the dark-blue sky / The dawn burst red. / In golden glow, spry / Sun rose from its bed. When sun-light came back, / By the sky reflected, / It met on its track, / New rays just projected. And when bright-gold, blended rays / Spilled, suddenly lighting earth’s face, / The blue ...»
«on 26 April 1912 “What do you need?” I pled / With the blizzard, “Please depart. / You summon sadness and dread / And worries that sicken my heart; Why do you howl at my window? / Let me be now, I’m praying; / Move away, or stay and blow, / But don’t listen — I’m crying. ...»