The little girl with the
Green belt is bustling
About, planting two poor
Yellow seedlings in the sand.
They don’t stand up — and that’s
It: isn’t the sand glad of them?
But the sun is already in the
West and the garden turns golden.
The child shakes one small
White hand after another:
“As soon as I make a little
Hole it fills in...
Nasty, stubborn things!
Hush! little daughter, if
They find the holes unpleasant
We will take away their stems.
There, see? All’s for the
Best, cheer up, child! On
That shifting hillock two
Small stars have caught fire.
Shaggy, saffron little stars.
Made out of flowers...
There, my precious, your
Little garden is ready.
Her small feet will cease jumping
And all her laughter will
Pour out, but when night comes,
God has beds for everybody...
You will fall asleep, little
Angel-girl, in down, on your
Elbow... and the two yellow
Seedlings will lie flat in the sand.
Захлопоталась девочка
В зелёном кушаке,
Два желтые обсевочка
Сажая на песке.
Не держатся и на-поди:
Песок ли им не рад?..
А солнце уж на западе
И золотится сад.
За ручкой ручку белую
Малютка отряхнёт:
«Чуть ямочку проделаю,
Ее и заметёт…
Противные, упрямые!»
— Молчи, малютка дочь,
Коль неприятны ямы им,
Мы стебельки им прочь.
Вот видишь ли: всё к лучшему —
Дитя, развеселись,
По холмику зыбучему
Две звёздочки зажглись.
Мохнатые, шафранные
Звездинки из цветов…
Ну вот, моя желанная,
И садик твой готов.
Отпрыгаются ноженьки,
Весь высыплется смех,
А ночь придёт — у Боженьки
Постельки есть для всех…
Заснёшь ты, ангел-девочка,
В пуху, на локотке…
А жёлтых два обсевочка
Распластаны в песке.
«I've quit my father's home / And left blue Russ. With three / Bright stars the birch-tree grove / Consoles my mother's grief. / / The moon has, like a frog, / Upon the pond appeared. / Like apple blossom, locks / Of grey fleck father's beard. / / I shall not soon come back! / ...»
«I’ve translated the final Shakespeare sonnet. / So let the poet leaving now his dear / Old home start speaking in another year. / Another tongue, in this part of the planet. We know him as a fellow warrior here: / Defender of truth, peace and freedom. On its / Own feet, in Russian, that...»
«Peace-loving Stassen who appears so pious / Is most inflammable and could well fry us. / He wears an olive branch in his lapel. / But sits on bombs like some hen doing well / In her present condition. Still he can / Consider any disarmament plan.»
«We enter — and our shocked hearts shudder... Cruel / Death, desolation, emptiness yawn here... / Where are the swans... and brooks? Where are the muses? / The beauty that from childhood we’ve held dear? Where are the gardeners? Where are the people / Who used to cherish peaceful parks l...»