What if my poems, bright or gloom,
Just at beginning end?
They are all happy: brides and grooms,
One who was dying — dead.
With clear words the novels done,
End with big dots, at least;
One knows who’s a wid., Arman,
Whose daughter Lisa is.
But there is not a chance to see
The order in my hums,
They flow over chasm more free
Then dears in their jumps.
And he wouldn’t catch sight of my tears —
Who reads ans morns a lot:
The fate doesn’t set a dot at cease,
But just a blot.
Что делать с вами, милые стихи?
Кончаетесь, едва начавшись.
Счастливы все: невесты, женихи,
Покойник мертв, скончавшись.
В романах строгих ясны все слова,
В конце — большая точка;
Известно — кто Арман, и кто вдова,
И чья Элиза дочка.
Но в легком беге повести моей
Нет стройности намека,
Над пропастью летит она вольней
Газели скока.
Слез не заметит на моем лице
Читатель-плакса,
Судьбой не точка ставится в конце,
А только клякса.
«I died. The sycamores and shutters / along the dusty street were teased / by torrid Aeolus. I walked, / and fauns walked, and in every faun / god Pan I seemed to recognize: / Good. I must be in Paradise. Shielding her face and to the sparkling sun /...»
«And you, my dear friends, ones of the last selection, / My life was saved to ever mourn you. / Not, like a willow, to cool in lamentation, / But cry your names the whole planet through! But what of names! / We are together always! / All on yo...»
«There are faces so rich as the portals / Where the great is felt apart in the small. / There are faces that similar to the wretched hovels / Where the liver they cook and get wet the maw. / The others are cold or almost have the dead faces, / Closed by grates, like a dungeon that is so da...»
«A brief moment rules a smart, / A fool knows all from reading. / Smart and fool are always apart, / Smart is weight, and fool is clothing!»