Where can I look, where can I go,
to find that almost Alpine snow,
all sacrificed so life can grow,
all turned by May to splash and flow,
to breath of dandelion and rose,
to mighty wave or shining billow —
into that foolish question posed
by François Villon long ago?
Где прошлогодний снег, скажите мне?..
Нетаявший, почти альпийский снег,
Невинной жертвой отданный весне,
Апрелем обращенный в плеск и бег,
В дыханье одуванчиков и роз,
Взволнованного мира светлый вал,
В поэзию... В бессмысленный вопрос,
Что ей Виллон когда-то задавал.
«As Darkness descends on the ocean, / As Night spreads her silvery veil, / A brigantine cuts through the waters / And glides downwind at full sail. Her tall topsail masts are not bending, / Her vanes are not moved by the air, / Her cannons face open deck hatches / With silent indifferent...»
«When our decrepit energies turn traitor, / when, like former tenants, / we let our house to the young, / save us then, good spirit, / from faint-hearted reproaches, / from slander, from animosity / at our changing life, / from feelings of suppressed spite / at the world which is bein...»
«When waning strength of soul and body / Does hint that our fate is sealed, / And we, old-timers, must be ready / Our kingdom to new-comers yield, — Then kindly spare us, o good genius, / The craven, cowardly reproach, / The slander, and the spite continuous / At our life’s decrepit ...»
«We always only dream about happiness, however, / It’s everywhere. And perhaps it is / These trees behind the barn wrapped into autumn weather, / And through my window a softly flowing breeze. In the endless sky there rises white and wispy / Edge of a shining cloud. Quite for long / I’...»