The sense of your bidding is unclear:
to pray, to curse, is it, to fight
you bid me, inscrutable genius?
The spring slackens, niggard, meager,
and Benozzo Gozzoli's courier
dozes in the drowsy thickets.
Hills are dark with honeyed cloud.
Look: I do not touch lithe strings.
Your gaze, prophetically flying,
is clenched, gushes no winged streams,
and beckons by no May road, trying
to outstrip Hermes in his flight.
Hobbled horses do not neigh,
Aging warriors sprawl in disarray...
Hold your palms open wide!
Risen spring is bright,
but groves of darkness are not given
to leap for joy having leapt from dreams.
The groom names not the hour,
be not guiled to tarry,
hark through ice the clarion voice,
your flax is drenched with chrism,
and, bidding goodbye to numb laze,
free, in love, you will rise.
Невнятен смысл твоих велений:
Молиться ль, проклинать, бороться ли
Велишь мне, непонятный гений?
Родник скудеет, скуп и мал,
И скороход Беноццо Гоццоли
В дремучих дебрях задремал.
Холмы темны медяной тучей.
Смотри: я стройных струн не трогаю.
Твой взор, пророчески летучий,
Закрыт, крылатых струй не льёт,
Не манит майскою дорогою
Опережать Гермесов лёт.
Не ржут стреноженные кони,
Раскинулись, дряхлея, воины...
Держи отверстыми ладони!
Красна воскресная весна,
Но рощи тьмы не удостоены
Взыграть, воспрянув ото сна.
Жених не назначает часа,
Не соблазняйся промедлением,
Лови чрез лёд призывы гласа.
Елеем напоен твой лён,
И, распростясь с ленивым млением,
Воскреснешь, волен и влюблён.
«I know the truth! All other truths - out of my sight! / There is no cause for us to hold these fights and battles! / Just take a look: there’s evening, look: there’s night. / Why do we fight — o poets, lovers, and commanders? The grass is dewy and the wind has settled down, / And soon...»
«Two suns are cooling down, — God, I protest! — / One — in the sky, the other — in my chest. How these two suns — could my conscience forget? — / How these two suns were driving me mad! Both cooling now, — their rays won’t hurt your eyes! / The one that burned the hottest »
«The gypsy passion of parting! / Just met — and rushing to part! / I dropped my head in my hands and started / To think, staring into the dark: From our letters, no one could gather / Any insight to understand more / How disloyal we were, or rather, — / How true to ourselves we were.»
«No one was left at a loss!1 / I’m happy we’ve come to part. / I’m kissing you now — across / The gap of a thousand yards. We’re not equal — I understand. / I’m calm — for the first time. / A young Derzhavin,2 you can’t / Accept my undisciplined rhyme. I christen you...»