Christ and the Lord! I thirst for marvel
Now, here, as the day would start!
The life is like a book to me,
So let me die. Let me depart.
You're wise, and sternly «Now be patient,
Your time's not ripe», you will not say.
Yourself you gave me — too much now!
I thirst at once — for every way!
I want it all: with soul of gypsy
To run to plunder with a song,
To suffer for all near an organ,
To run to war, an Amazon;
To divine stars in a black tower
The kids through shadows to lead...
That yesterday would be a legend,
That each and every day be mad!
I love the cross, the silk, the helmet,
The minute's trace of soul of mine..
You gave me childhood — better than fiction
Now let me die at seventeen!
Христос и Бог! Я жажду чуда
Теперь, сейчас, в начале дня!
О, дай мне умереть, покуда
Вся жизнь как книга для меня.
Ты мудрый, ты не скажешь строго:
— «Терпи, еще не кончен срок».
Ты сам мне подал — слишком много!
Я жажду сразу — всех дорог!
Всего хочу: с душой цыгана
Идти под песни на разбой,
За всех страдать под звук органа
И амазонкой мчаться в бой;
Гадать по звездам в черной башне,
Вести детей вперед, сквозь тень...
Чтоб был легендой — день вчерашний,
Чтоб был безумьем — каждый день!
Люблю и крест и шелк, и каски,
Моя душа мгновений след...
Ты дал мне детство — лучше сказки
И дай мне смерть — в семнадцать лет!
«And to you, my first vagary, / I said goodbye. The east was turning blue, / Though I didn’t know what you meant, / You said, simply: "I’ll not forget." Other faces appear and vanish, / Dear today, and tomorrow, done. / Why is at this page alone, / The corner is turned down? Forever...»
«I pray to the ray from the window-pane — / It’s pale, thin, and straight. / All morning I was silent, / My heart — split in two. / The copper of my wash-basin / Is green with verdigris, / But sunlight plays there, / How joyously. / So simple it is, so innocent, / In evening q...»
«He loved three things, alive: / White peacocks, songs at eve, / And antique maps of America. / Hated when children cried, / And raspberry jam with tea, / And feminine hysteria. / ...And he had married me.»
«My feather brushed the carriage roof. / I was gazing into his eyes. / The pain, in my heart, I failed to know, / Caused by my own sighs. The evening breathless, heavily-chained / Under a heavenly cloud-bank, / As in the Bois de Boulogne, stained, / In some old album, with Indian ink. S...»