And copper and worn my farthing
Is fit only for a beggar’s pouch.
This is not the good deed —
So, I’ll give my soul to him.
And if the soul is not coin,
But a golden star —
I’ll fling a sliver of light
There where the world has need.
А медный и стертый мой грошик
Нищему только в суму.
Не то, что поступок хороший, —
Так — душу отдам ему.
А если душа не монета,
А золотая звезда, —
Швырну я осколок света
Туда же, где в свете нужда.
«Of madness years the faded joy and laughter / Weigh gravely like a hazy morning after. / And yet the sorrows of the finished page, / Like fancy wine, still stronger get with age. / My way lies dreary. Work and grief are written / In what’s to come, which like the sea is smitten. But, o...»
«The sultry sun heats to the seventh sweat. / The ravine rages in the frenzy, senseless. / As though a cowgirl working in the stead, — / The spring is busy, and its chores are endless. Out in the light, the snow-banks slowly slump, / Their bloodless, twig-like veins turn paler still. / ...»
«Oh my dear maple, frozen stiff and bare, / Why do you stand bending in the blizzard there? / / Have you seen a vision? Have you heard a babble? / Just like you are out for an idle ramble. / / Like a tipsy warden, walking on the roadside, / You have stuck in snowdrift, hit by burnin...»
«There’s still the twilight of the night. / The world’s so young in its proceeding, / That there are countless stars outside / And each one, like the day, is bright / And if the Earth could so decide, / She’d sleep through Easter in delight, / Hearing the Psalter reading. There’s...»