Aquarelle
An apple-tree in Spring shakes me, — to see it grow,
Its branches whitely weighted with unmelting snow.
So might a hunch-backed girl stand, beautiful and dumb,
As trembling, the tree stands, and strikes my genius numb...
It looks into the wide, pale shallows, mirror-clear,
Seeking to shed the dews that stain it like a tear;
And stilled with horror, groans like a rude, rusty cart,
Seeing the dismal hunch mocked by the pool's bright art.
When steely sleep alights upon the silent lake
For the bent apple-tree, as for a sick girl's sake,
I come to offer tenderness the boughs would miss,
I press upon the petal-perfumed tree a kiss.
Then trustingly, with tears, the tree confides her care
To me, and brushes with a touch my back-blown hair.
Her boughs encircle me, her little twigs enlace,
And I lift up my lips to kiss her flowering face.
Акварель
Перу И. И. Ясинского посвящаю
Весенней яблони, в нетающем снегу,
Без содрогания я видеть не могу:
Горбатой девушкой — прекрасной, но немой —
Трепещет дерево, туманя гений мой...
Как будто в зеркало — смотрясь в широкий плес,
Она старается смахнуть росинки слез,
И ужасается, и стонет, как арба,
Вняв отражению зловещего горба.
Когда на озеро слетает сон стальной,
Бываю с яблоней, как с девушкой больной,
И, полный нежности и ласковой тоски,
Благоуханные целую лепестки.
Тогда доверчиво, не сдерживая слез,
Она касается слегка моих волос,
Потом берет меня в ветвистое кольцо, —
И я целую ей цветущее лицо.
«Let’s go to the city, where we / Sometimes would stay on occasion. / And leave the past behind, / Like luggage at the station. Let the past try to safeguard itself, / For us, there’s no preservation. / We’ll feel some sadness, but more / New vigor and strength and elation. Alread...»
«No regrets, no tears and no complaining, / All, like haze from apple trees, will pass. / Taken by the gold of autumn waning, / I will not be young again, alas. Having felt the cool touch of the sudden / Draft, my heart, your beating will be dull, / And the land of birch trees, white as co...»
«You know, I languish here, / Captive — Lord, let it end! — / But still recall the pain of it, / Tver, that impoverished land. The framework over the crumbling well, / Above, a cloud like foam on boiling water, / The gates creaking in the fields, / And the smell of bread — so bored...»
«Your white house and tranquil garden, I shall leave, / Life will be stark and desolate. / I shall praise you in my poetry / As never woman has known how to praise. / You will remember your dear friend / In a paradise created by you for her eyes, / While I shall trade in rare effects — ...»