Marina Tsvetaeva
The Unjoys of Nonlove

I’m glad that you’re not indisposed with feelings steeped in me.
I’m glad that I’m not indisposed with feelings steeped in you.
That never will earth’s gravid sphere float free
Beneath our giddy footsteps specked with dew.
I’m glad that we can laugh capriciously,
Light-minded be, un-vexed by words we’d rue,
That when our sleeves might touch haphazardly,
We need not wince, emotions wrenched askew.

Glad too am I that you before my eyes
Can flirt, caress, arrange a rendezvous,
And wish me not in hell to agonize
If I throw kisses to the winds, but not a one to you.
My name, my tender name, O light of my tender eye,
Take not in vain, to our non-love be true,
I’m glad that never will a church hush solemnize
Our marriage vows, that lofty-soft and sanctified “I do.”

I thank you in my heart, effusively,
For — unbeknownst to you! — so loving me,
For my nocturnal calm, tranquility,
For oh-so-rare that seldomness of meetings secretly,
For non-walks under moonlight near the sea,
For sunshine never sparkling on our lea.
I’m glad (alas) that you’re not sick, with feelings steeped in me.
I’m glad that I’m not sick (alack), with feelings steeped in thee.

Translated by U. R. Bowie