I still find charm in little accidental
trifles, empty little things —
say, in a novel without end or title,
or in this rose, now wilting in my hands.
I like its moiré petals, dappled
with trembling silver drops of rain —
and how I found it on the sidewalk,
and how I’ll toss it in a garbage can.
Еще я нахожу очарованье
В случайных мелочах и пустяках —
В романе без конца и без названья,
Вот в этой розе, вянущей в руках.
Мне нравится, что на ее муаре
Колышется дождинок серебро,
Что я нашел ее на тротуаре
И выброшу в помойное ведро.
«Take from my open hands for your delight / A bit of honey and a bit of sun / As willed to us the bees of Proserpina. Not to untie again an unmoored boat, / And not to know a shadow shod in fur, / Nor yet to conquer fear of dreary lifetime: To us remain but kisses in the night, / Fuzzy an...»
«Brothers, let's celebrate the dusk of liberty, / Let's celebrate this great and dusky Yule. / In boiling waters of the night like sea / The heavy wood has been submerged and pulls / In these dead years you rise above me / O sun, to judge us all and rule. Let's celebrate the fated burden, ...»
«On fearsome height stands wandering fire / But does star glimmer thus, or are eyes lying? / Transparent star, wandering fire / Your brother, Petropole, is dying. On fearsome height the earthly dreams all burn / And a green star is flying. / Oh, if you be a star — brother of earth and he...»
«I have forgot the word that I had meant to say. / To palace of the shades flies a blind swallow / Upon clipped wings with shadows to play. / Night's song is in oblivion sung below. Immortelle does not bloom. I cannot hear bird's song. / Transparent are the mantles of night's horse herd / ...»