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.
«Confusion I The burning light was stifling, / His glances – like the rays. / I only shuddered slightly: / This one can tame my ways. / He’ll lean in, speaking, brazen… / I’m pale, out of fright. / Let love become the gravestone / That lies upon my life.»
«Confusion II Don’t love me, don’t wish to see me? / So handsome, and cursed all the while! / And now, I can’t even fly freely, / Though I’ve always had wings as a child. / The fog fills my eyes with clouds, / Things and faces are fused, all in all, / Just a single small tulip s...»
«Confusion III You approached me, smiling mildly, / As by civility’s demand, / Then, half tenderly and half idly, / With a kiss you brushed my hand — / And the faces, mysterious, ancient, / Cast their gazes on me forthright… / All ten years of my trepidations, / Each and every s...»
«The feather grazed the carriage roof. / I looked into his eyes. / The heart was aching, yet aloof / As to the reason why. The windless sky had the evening wedged, / Grief fettered it to the brink, / The Bois de Boulogne resembled a sketch / In an album, in India ink. The smells of petr...»