Today has not yet come,
And yesterday has melted.
The morning's face is wan:
An actress with no make-up.
Her eyelids puffed, the dawn
Is creeping, nude and moody,
And with a weary yawn
Sinks into daily duties...
Wise mornings have no haste:
The day is barely shaping,
While, sulky and unshaven,
You watch it in the making
And hear its easy pace.
Вчерашний день погас,
А нынешний не начат,
И утро, без прикрас,
Актрисою заплачет.
Без грима, нагишом,
Приходит утром утро,
А далее - в мешок -
Забот, зевот... И мудро
Что утро настает,
И день не обозначен,
И ты небрит и мрачен.
Светлеет. День не начат,
Но он пешком идет.
«O Thou, in universe so boundless, / alive in planets as they swarm / within eternal flow, yet timeless, / unseen, you reign in triune form! / Thy single Spirit all comprises, / from no abode or cause arises, / keeps paths that Reason never trod, / pervades, incarnate, all that's living...»
«Metallic clangour! Tongue of time! / Your fatal voice oppresses me; / your groans call me insistently, / call me and speed me to the grave. / Scarcely the light of day I see / and death already grinds her teeth; / like lightning flashes her scythe gleams / and cuts my days like stalks...»
«I sit where the light is above me, / my circular room is my sphere; / I gaze at a plasterwork heaven / where the sun is an old chandelier. And likewise illumined around me, / the chairs and the table and bed. / Should I sit with my hands in my pockets, / or where might I put them instea...»
«Deep in the mountain the idol rests / in sweet repose, infinite and blest, / the fat of necklaces dripping from his neck / protects his dreams of flood tide and of slack. As a boy, he buddied with a peacock, / they gave him rainbow of India to eat / and milk in a pink clay dish, / and d...»