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.
«He's taken all from me, executioner God. / Health, strength of will, the air, and sleep. / Only one thing did he leave me, and that / Is you, that I may continue to praise him.»
«Now the golden leafage is beggared. / Shining through the porches of autumn, / Shows the cool blue stillness of heaven. / Lo, the thin-trunked grove is transcended: / Carved in stone, a columned cathedral. / Smoke-scrolls wind about the frail friezes; / Flung above the doors is a curtain...»
«We live just as in a dream impenetrable / on one of the comfortable planets... / There are so many things we don't need, / and that which we want doesn't exist.»
«Moon shadows — shadows of sorrow — / Stumble about as a quiet herd, / Wearing black, like grief, earth's cover, / Tramping a ghostly hidden path. They lovingly and gently rocked many, / And sensitively gave reflections back. / Moon shadows, shadows of sorrow, / Endlessly repeating m...»