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.
«These are ashes of treasures, / Of pain and loss. / Faced with such ashes, / Granite turns to dust. A dove, naked and taintless, / Alive, yet matchless. / These are Solomon’s ashes / Above the great vanity. The menacing chalk mark / Of the dawnless age. / God’s at my doorstep /...»
«A soldier — into a trench, / A head of hair — into grayness, / Sky! I blend with you, sea-like. / On every syllable / As at a secret look, / I turn, / I preen. A Scythian — into a skirmish, / A whip — into a wild dance. / Sea! I brave into you, sky-like. / In every poem / ...»
«From the mind’s dreams, from the bile’s rage, / Goddess of Faithfulness, keep your slave. With cast-iron hoops bind tight her breast, / Goddess of Faithfulness, be her nest. Remove from the shrub all flowers and pips, / Make her mouth numb, then seal her lips. As safe as bone encased ...»
«When parched with thirst, give me water, / One glass, or else I’ll die. / Persistently — languidly — melodically — / I pledge my feverish cry Repeated at length — yet still more fiercely, / Once more — again / Tossing all night long for sleep, / Aware all sleep is spent. ...»