Look at the coppice!
Foliage awash in scorching sun,
wafting sweet comfort around me,
from every bough and leaf it runs!
Let's go inside and sit above the roots
of trees fed by that rill,
where trees waft in their thousands
the stream which whispers in the dusky still.
Delirium runs her fingers through the leafy summits
suspended in the midday heat
and every now and then an eagle screeches,
from very far away.
Смотри, как роща зеленеет,
Палящим солнцем облита,
А в ней — какою негой веет
От каждой ветки и листа!
Войдем и сядем над корнями
Дерев, поимых родником, —
Там, где, обвеянный их мглами,
Он шепчет в сумраке немом.
Над нами бредят их вершины,
В полдневный зной погружены,
И лишь порою крик орлиный
До нас доходит с вышины...
«First, as a serpent, it’ll cast its spell / Next to your heart, curled up. / Then, it’ll come as a dove, as well, / Cooing for days, nonstop. / In the frost, it’ll show itself curtly, / Or in the drowsing field of carnations... / To escort you covertly and firmly / Away from all ...»
«In the heart, the memory of the sun fades, / Yellower turns the grass. / The wind disperses the early flakes / Barely, with each pass. In narrow channels, water won’t flow — / Cooling, stands still. / Here, nothing will ever happen, I know, — / It never will! The transparent fan ...»
«Why pretend to be / Now breeze, now stone, now a bird? / Why smile at me, / In sudden lightning from summer’s sky? Don’t torture me further, and don’t touch me! / Leave me to my prophetic dreams... / A drunken flame reels / Over the dry grey marshes. And the Muse in a ragged shaw...»
«Here summer is over / As if it never happened. / Under the sun it's warmer, / Only it's not sufficient. All that could be realized, / Like a five-fingered leaf, in / My hands was brought straight, / Only it's not sufficient. Neither evil nor good / Was lost here in vain. / It all...»