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.
«You followed the games of little boys, / Having renounced the smiling doll. / From the cradle straight to the steed / A surplus of rage directed you. The years passed, without having darkened with / Wicked shadows any of the power-loving flashes / In your soul — how little of me there i...»
«I see you descending from the trolley — / utterly beloved, / The wind blows, wafting to the heart — / utterly beloved, / I do not tear away my gaze from you — / ...»
«They look anew with sightless eyes / Mother of God and the Savior-Child. / It smells of incense, oil, and wax. / The church fills up with quiet weeping. / The candles melt by the young meek woman / In the numb and stiff little fist. Ah, lead me away from my death, / You, whose hands are...»
«Are you happy? — You don’t say! Hardly at all! / Oh, so it’s better now? Sure, fine! / Too many, it seems, are those you kissed; / This is where my sadness comes from. I see within you all the heroines / Of Shakespeare’s tragedies. / You, tragic young lady, / No one saved. You...»