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.
«Cast-iron railings, / a bed of pine. / And jealousy? / So sweet it’s gone. With sobs and prayers / my bed was made. / Walk at will now, / God at your side! Your ears not stung / by ranting words. / No candle-burning / until the dawn. We won our peace: / clear days and dear. ...»
«A cast-iron fence, / A bed of pine, / How sweet that I no longer / Need to be jealous. A bed’s made for me / With sobbing and prayer; / Now go wherever on earth / You wish, God bless you! Now your ears won’t burn / With frenzied speech, / Now a candle won’t flicker / Till t...»
«I bow to them as if over a cup, / Those innumerable precious lines — / This is the black, tender news / Of our youth stained with blood. The air is the air I breathed / That night above the abyss, / That night of iron emptiness, / When all calls and cries were vain. How rich the scen...»
«Like a bird, the echo answers me. / B.P. 1 A unique voice fell silent yesterday; / our woodland companion has gone his way, / changed into life-giving ears of grain / or – as he liked to sing – into the finest rain. / And all the flowers in all the world / burst into bloom to greet...»