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.
«Louder is noise, as if taller than buildings, / Train is shivering for the final time, / Final time... we're riding... now my winter / Dream, say goodbye! My winter dream, good to the point of tears, / From you fortune is bearing me away. / It is thus judged! I need no dream nor burden ...»
«It is true, is it not, that our souls are not used yet to parting? / With a shimmer of glimmering wings they each other call! / Someone higher parted the arms, tenderly interwoven, / But forgot the remembering souls. Every evening, lit up by the will of a sorceress gentle. / Every evening, ...»
«Did not love, did not weep. Oh no, did not love, but regardless / I have showed in the shadows the beloved likeness to you. / In our sleep all things did not appear like love: / No cause, no clues. From the evening hall only to us nodded this image, / Only we — you and me — to it pitif...»
«Behind the walls once again / Bells' whining is heard. / Several streets between us, / And several words! / The city in darkness sleeps, / Silver sickle appears, / The falling snow scatters / Your collar with stars. / Do your wounds ail for a long time? / Do the calls wound of the...»