How nice to walk the quay at night! No fuss.
We stroll and we are silent, both of us.
We see the Seine, a tree, and there’s the rising stone
Of a cathedral, and clouds...
We’ll postpone
Our talking till tomorrow, later, aye.
Till day after tomorrow,
till we die.
По набережной ночью мы идем.
Как хорошо — идем, молчим вдвоем.
И видим Сену, дерево, собор
И облака…
А этот разговор
На завтра мы отложим, на потом,
На после-завтра…
На когда умрем.
«Over dull grey wastes of water / winds are massing darkening storm-clouds. / There ‘twixt clouds and surging sea-waves / proudly soars the Stormy Petrel, / darting sheer like jet-black lightening. / Now he skims the foam with wing-tip, / now — and arrow shooting cloudward, — / he...»
«There, where the sunrise is sprinkling / Water of red where the cabbage bed sits. / The small maple nuzzling his mother / Impatiently sucks her green tits.»
«Snow gone, mounds of clay are drying. / Mold of mushrooms on the foothills. / On the plains the wind is dancing — / Like a gentle small red donkey. Smells of pine and pussy willow... / Heaven sometimes sighs — and dozes. / And a sparrow reads his psalter / At the pulpit of the fore...»
«It was morning, and in the rye-bin, / Where the rows of gold mats were spread, / A dog littered seven puppies, / Seven puppies, brownish-red. She fondled them until evening / And combed them smooth with her tongue, / While the light snow melted beneath her / Where her warm belly hung. ...»