I don’t know, I can’t explain...
Do I love or do I die?
Is it a dream or is it Verlaine?
Is it spell or a prison cell?
Either the torment of the ideal
Or the beauty’s torment
Is spilled in the whole world
From a broken goblet.
The dream might be wrong as well
Whether she is the one,
In the light of the ideal
The dream might guess in vain
Is it spell or a prison cell?
Is it a dream or is it Verlaine?
But the roses of my cell
Breathed the scent to my lips,
And my dream will sing again
To the music of Verlaine.
Не могу понять, не знаю…
Это сон или Верлен?..
Я люблю иль умираю?
Это чары или плен?
Из разбитого фиала
Всюду в мире разлита
Или мука идеала,
Или муки красота.
Пусть мечта не угадала,
Та она или не та,
Перед светом идеала,
Пусть мечта не угадала,
Это сон или Верлен?
Это чары или плен?
Но дохнули розы плена
На замолкшие уста,
И под музыку Верлена
Будет петь моя мечта.
«I cannot remember — at just which nightstop / the itch of future life has crawled through me. / The world did shudder. / A star tripped on its run, / and fell into a blue-enameled basin. / I reached for it... But, it has washed away, / between my fingers — a red-scaled ide. / The ...»
«Here I am back again in this land. / I pass by / Again under the young planetrees, / Again, children run amid the parkbenches, / Again, the sea lies covered in the smoke of ships... / Here I am, a volunteer, in epaulets, / Edged in colored piping, - / Here I am, a warrior, the hero of ...»
«I chanced upon an ancient witch in brooding forest lair. / And asked I of this ancient one: “You know the sin I bear?” / She laughed, this wizened woman, with a cackle like a bray: / “Do you not know? You aren’t, my child, the first his youth to slay? / For you rejected happiness, be...»
«When shines the moon amidst the dark of night / With sickle’s scintillation, bright and tender, / It’s then my spirit starts to take her flight, / In thrall to all that’s filled with distant splendour. And in my dreams I race towards the chases / Of forest glades and snow-white mounta...»