If from the garden, this stupid maple
Spreading his branches would fly away!
Oh, if he could behave this way,
Oh, if he only would be able!
But he 's just thickening every week,
And all is leaving, but not leaving.
What is the point to be so weak
And stay whole year like a stick?!
О, если б клён, в саду растущий,
Расправив ветви, улетел!..
О, если бы летать хотел
Безмозглый клён, в саду растущий!..
Он с каждым днём всё гуще-гуще,
И вот уж сплошь он полиствел.
Что толку! — лучше бы: растущий,
Взмахнув ветвями, улетел!
«Coolidge, old boy, / give a whoop of joy! / What’s good is good — / no need for debates. / Blush red with my praise, / swell with pride / ...»
«You’ve departed, / as they say, / to another world. / Emptiness. . . . / Fly on, / with stars ...»
«Not in vain I start. / No ghost-talc rubbish, reader. / Through the harbour’s molten sunshine, / past the jetty / steams / the very self / of Comrade THEODORE / NETTE. / Yes, it’s he; / all in a hurry...»
«Evening's knitted dark eyebrows in chagrin, / Someone’s horses are by palisade. / Isn't it you I've just given up lovin'? / Isn't it lately I've drunk youth away? Overdue horses, don’t you snort, waiting! / Life has galloped by without trace. / If for keeps, on a hospital bedstead / ...»