Blessed are the ones that left your daughters, Earth,
To fight in wartime battle and to run,
Blessed are the ones that having never tried
Comfort went to the fields Elysian.
Thus grows the laurel - writer of the years,
Heater of battle, sober, with harsh leaves.
I will never exchange for bitter fate of love
The friendship's over-the-clouds cliffs.
Блаженны дочерей твоих, Земля,
Бросавшие для боя и для бега.
Блаженны в Елисейские поля
Вступившие, не обольстившись негой.
Так лавр растёт, — жестоколист и трезв,
Лавр-летописец, горячитель боя.
— Содружества заоблачный отвес
Не променяю на юдоль любови.
____
Хвала Афродите. 1. Блаженны дочерей твоих, Земля...
Хвала Афродите. 2. Уже богов — не те уже щедроты...
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«Peace-loving Stassen who appears so pious / Is most inflammable and could well fry us. / He wears an olive branch in his lapel. / But sits on bombs like some hen doing well / In her present condition. Still he can / Consider any disarmament plan.»
«We enter — and our shocked hearts shudder... Cruel / Death, desolation, emptiness yawn here... / Where are the swans... and brooks? Where are the muses? / The beauty that from childhood we’ve held dear? Where are the gardeners? Where are the people / Who used to cherish peaceful parks l...»
«...I won’t give my enemies that consolation: / My death — hypocritically to deplore. / The hook where I’d hang myself is not yet driven, / Not yet forged. Not dug out from the earth as ore. / I’ll rise over all of my bottomless life, / The terrors, the whole iron anguish I knew. / ...»
«As a sad look I fancy autumn. / On a serene and misty day / To woods I often choose my way / And gratified there stay / Alone in pleasant mood begotten. / Beneath a pine in a land of needles, / While tasting lazily a berry, / I muse on matters sad and merry / And listen to wood...»