How agleam, how garnished the spring!
Turn your eyes in the old way upon me:
Say, wherefore this sorrowing?
Why lavish this tenderness on me?
You are mute, as a blossom so frail,
Say naught! — No confession is needed:
The flight of your love I have heeded, —
Lone again is my trail!
Как светла, как нарядна весна!
Погляди мне в глаза, как бывало,
И скажи: отчего ты грустна?
Отчего ты так ласкова стала?
Но молчишь ты, слаба, как цветок…
О, молчи! Мне не надо признанья:
Я узнал эту ласку прощанья, —
Я опять одинок!
«I like it that you're burning not for me, / I like it that it's not for you I'm burning / And that the heavy sphere of Planet Earth / Will underneath our feet no more be turning / I like it that I can be unabashed / And humorous and not to play with words / And not to redden with a smoth...»
«These my poems, written so early / That I did not know then I was a poet, / Which having tore, like droplets from a fountain, / Like sparks from a rocket, Into a sanctuary, where there is sleep and incense / Like little devils having burst, / These my poems about youth and about death, / ...»
«They cut / Ashberry / Keen. / Ashberry — / Is bitter / Fortune. / Ashberry — / With gray-haired / Descents. / Ashbery! / Fortune / Russian.»
«Dirt flies / From under the hooves. / Shawl like a shield / Over the face. / Newlyweds, have fun / Without the young! / Eh, carry them out, / Disheveled stallion! We didn't have freedom / Under mother and dad, / The whole field for us / Is marital bed! Full without bread and wi...»