At him on windows tap the roses,
And wraps the smarmy chord its shroud...
He will not change his haughty poses,
A Byronist — oh, how he’s proud!
In velvet shimmer of the garden
With shepherdess does cupid play.
The adolescent’s features harden,
A Byronist — he can’t be gay!
Pah! From outside sound rowboat’s splashes,
On windowsill a bouquet falls...
And, trembling, book to floor he dashes,
O bard, forgive admirer’s crawls!
Ему в окно стучатся розы,
Струится вкрадчивый аккорд...
Он не изменит гордой позы,
Поклонник Байрона, — он горд.
В саду из бархата и блёсток
Шалит с пастушкою амур.
Не улыбается подросток,
Поклонник Байрона, — он хмур.
Чу! За окном плесканье вёсел,
На подоконнике букет...
Он задрожал, он книгу бросил.
Прости поклоннику, поэт!
«The barren slope of the meandering valley / Is overgrown with hoary, wiry grass. / Spurge shows up white. Eroded beds of clay / Reveal the sparkling lead and shale and mica. The water-worn and slaty walls sprout capers; / A crevice clasps the olive’s withered trunk; / Above the hill, th...»
«A sacred wood was here. The messenger of gods / Would let his winged foot fall lightly on these glades. / The onetime site of cities kept no trace of their ruin. / In flocks, sheep creep along the bronze inclines. The slopes are woodless. In the green twilight, the mountains / Form a jagged...»
«The stoop of oaks lifts up the chrome of clouds. / Cliffs harbour alcoves, niches, grottos deep. / And rain and wind and heat have left their traces / Into these stones engraved. A sketch is grooved Onto the slope, crayoned by lichen, framed by moss, / And walls of rock rise up as icon-case...»
«Full-blossomed, blue-grey and milky, the day froze still; / The sea, grown pallid, sobs as it kisses the sand; / The wings of the mist / Shed splashes of brine... Humility envelops the heart. Quiet... / Thoughts die away. In the orchard, the olive / Stretches her boughs to the blind sky /...»