The more the autumn wind is wicked
And the moon desperate, —
The merrier we, vagrants, get
With a bottle of wine.
We wandered the whole day through
The field, with a sleuth and a rifle…
We are comrades — nothing more —
Unacknowledging sorrow.
What is love? Rapture, lips,
The fervour of understatement…!
Moderately gentle, moderately rough,
You know how to be with me.
You smoke a Finnish pipe
And follow the wisp…
Narrowing your mocking eye,
Turning on your stomach!..
What is love? A smouldering match, —
Better things can be found:
Between desire and habit
There are paths of bliss.
Чем осенний ветер злее
И отчаянней луна, —
Нам, бродягам, веселее
За бутылкою вина.
Целый день блуждали в поле
Мы с собакой и ружьем...
Мы товарищи — не боле —
Но тоски не признаем.
Что любовь? Восторги, губы,
Недосказанности зной... !
В меру нежным, в меру грубым
Ты умеешь быть со мной.
Трубку финскую ты куришь
И следишь, как дым плывет...
Глаз насмешливый прищуришь,
Повернувшись на живот!..
Что любовь? дотлеет спичкой, —
Можно лучшее найти:
Между страстью и привычкой
Есть блаженные пути.
«A woman is awake in someone’s window. / The woman stranger must be telling fortunes. / What card will fall to her today to be her fortune? / God send her all the four brave noble kings! The king of hearts, the king of clubs, the king of spades, / The king of diamonds: troubles, midnight t...»
«“What’s going on in the world?” — “Wintertime, nothing more.” / “Just wintertime, nothing more, you believe?” — “Evidently, / Truth is, I too do my best to arrive at the entry / Into your homes that have fallen asleep long before.” “What is to follow all this?” —...»
«It’s all we need: to look intently — oh, my God! / It’s so simple: look intently, look inside, / And that is it — we cannot turn away or hide / From these amazing eyes, from their sudden depth. It’s all we need: to read intently — oh, my God! / It’s so simple: linger over tho...»
«Time is moving forward, exact and fast, / and my shadow grows as years pass, Every month it lengthens, it doesn't stay, / It is longer, longer with every day. Here I see the shape of my own hand / laid upon a field and a river bend. Here I see my shoulder, it almost reached / snow-cove...»