Only he whose repose is kept secret
Can breathe sweetly...
The curtain over my window
Does not wave.
You will come, if you are faithful to dreams;
But are you really that one?
I know the garden is there, the lilacs are
There, flooded with sun.
All is well in the blue fire,
In the fresh rustling;
Only the charms of bright allurement
Are so strange to me...
The bees carry honey into the hive there,
Drunk with clusters...
The heart lives only in sleep
Among the stars...
Лишь тому, чей покой таим,
Сладко дышится…
Полотно над окном моим
Не колышется.
Ты придешь, коль верна мечтам,
Только та ли ты?
Знаю: сад там, сирени там
Солнцем залиты.
Хорошо в голубом огне,
В свежем шелесте;
Только яркой так чужды мне
Чары прелести…
Пчелы в улей там носят мед,
Пьяны гроздами…
Сердце ж только во сне живет
Между звездами…
«And copper and worn my farthing / Is fit only for a beggar’s pouch. / This is not the good deed — / So, I’ll give my soul to him. / And if the soul is not coin, / But a golden star — / I’ll fling a sliver of light / There whe»
«Even in repentance there is pleasure: / But how bitter. As though from on high / Stones are thrown into the depths of the gorge / And the spirit abides quite alone. Out of the depths there arises / to the heights a muffled, troubled murmur. / The unbaring of spirit torments you: / With ...»
«Those who are woken, pray for me, / All those who hold a splinter of my soul. / The hour has come, brief steps lie to the goal — / All I have seen in dreams has come to be. Brothers and friends are lost in weary sleep. / The spirit is in mortal suffering spent. / The hour has come; the ...»
«The coachman sits like a king, / Wadded in armor, on a throne, / Spade-bearded like an icon, / Ringing with chain mail of coins. / And the poor horse flutters its arms, / Stretching like a coney fish, / Or, once more, flashing its eight legs / From out its gleaming belly.»