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!
«To be a poet — it means as / If one does not bestow the truth of life, / To cut oneself on the tender skin, / With blood's feelings to cherish another's soul. To be a poet — it means losing the freedom, / To make it more known to you, / The nightingale sings -- it doesn't hurt him, /...»
«My darling's hands — a pair of swans — / Are diving in the gold of my hair. / Everybody, the people of this world / Sing the song of love, endlessly. So did I, sometime, long ago / And now I'm singing the same, again, / That is why my words are steeped in tenderness / Are breathing ...»
«"Why is the moon shining so dimly / on the gardens and walls of Horossan? / As if I'm walking the Russian plain / Under the rustling mantle of the fog", — I asked that dear Lala, / Of the silent cypress at night, / But my host didn't whisper a word, / But rather raised their proud hea...»
«Silly heart, don't beat! / We are all deceived by happiness, / Only the beggar asks for sympathy... / Sily heart, don't beat. The yellow charms of the half moon / Are pouring by the chesnuts in the glade. / Bending to Lala on shalvari, / I'll hide under the veil. / Silly heart, don't ...»