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.
«Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita. “I, I, I”. What a word! It’s unfair! / Is this man I? Is this not a fake? / Could his mother love him anywhere — / Grayish-yellow, gray in his hair, / And such witty and wise as a snake? Can it be that the boy who liked dances / In the summer ...»
«Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita. I, I, I. What a ridiculous word! / Is that character there I? / Can mother really have loved such a person, / Yellow-grey, with greying hair, / And worldly-wise as a serpent? Can the boy who at Ostankino each summer / Used to dance at country balls be...»
«“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.” / ['Midway upon the journey of my life...' — Dante] I, I, I… What a barbarous word. / He is I? There must be some mistake! / Was it him that my mother adored — / This wild character, half-silver-haired, / Jaundice-faced and as wise as a s...»
«When, pained with spiritual thirst, / I trudged across a gloomy desert, / I came upon a six-winged seraph / Who stood before me on my path. / With digits light as sleep he touched / My eye pupils, and those enlarged, / Like a she-eagle's in a fright, / Filling up with prophetic sight. ...»