Oh, table, on which I write!
I thank you with all my heart:
You’ve given a trunk to me —
With goal a table to be —
But keep being the living trunk! —
With — over my head — your leaf, young,
With fresh bark and hot pitch’s tears,
With roots — till the bottom of Earth!
5
Мой письменный верный стол!
Спасибо за то, что ствол
Отдав мне, чтоб стать — столом,
Остался — живым стволом!
С листвы молодой игрой
Над бровью, с живой корой,
С слезами живой смолы,
С корнями до дна земли!
«Ophelia was singing as she perished, / And she sang while plaiting a wreath; / With flowers, the wreaths, and verses / She sunk down to the riverbed. So much in sad songs that is tempting, / Insinuates my soul toward dark depths. / So many are the feelings and songs, / The lacrimae and ...»
«Share with me your dreams of living, / Address yourself directly to my soul; / What cannot be expressed in words alone – / Fan into my soul in the form of sound.»
«How the chest breathes, fresh, voluminous – / Words are incapable of expressing a thing! / How in the ravines at midday loudly / Into milky froth cascade rivulets! The ether pulses and melts with song. / In the planted field rye gathers green – / And a gentle voice is heard humming: /...»
«Aflame with a thirst for light / The dawn is ashamed to arise; / Frigid, clear, and albumine, / A bird's wing sprung up. / The sun is still invisible, / But the soul is alright.»