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.
«Striking clock welcomes autumn to town: / This year notably heavy and hard, / Fallen fruit hits the ground, and the count / Is the number of fruit in the yard. With this music, important and clear, / Who repeats that the clock must still go? / The old garden performs with no fear / Loo...»
«Night, street, apothecary, lamppost, / Dim light, its mindless vanity. / Live for a century, or almost, — / It will be so. No getaway. Or die — it all will come full circle, / The motion that you will repeat: / Canal, night, rippling icy water, / Lamppost, apothecary, street.»
«Inside the woods, a Christmas tree / Is shinier than leaf-gold fire, / Toy wolves are hiding in the briar / With eyes that stare out scarily. O, quiet liberty of mine, / O, sadness calling the foreknown, / And of the lifeless heaven's dome / The ever-laughing crystal shine!»
«Washed my face outside; the night had laid / Chillness on the water barrel brimming; / Coarse like salt upon an axe’s blade, / Stars upon the firm night skies were gleaming. Tightly locked, the gateway won’t get loose. / And the earth is not exactly gentle – / Purer than a canvas...»