The lonely sail is showing white
Among the haze of the blue sea!..
What does it search in foreign part?
What left it in the native land?..
The waves are playing, wind is whistling,
And bending mast is creaking loud,
Alas, — it does not hunt for pleasure
And nor from pleasure does it run!
Below — a bright stream of azure,
Above — a golden beam of sun,
But it, rebellious, asks for tempests
As if the tempests give a rest!
Белеет парус одинокой
В тумане моря голубом!..
Что ищет он в стране далекой?
Что кинул он в краю родном?..
Играют волны — ветер свищет,
И мачта гнется и скрыпит...
Увы! он счастия не ищет,
И не от счастия бежит!
Под ним струя светлей лазури,
Над ним луч солнца золотой...
А он, мятежный, просит бури,
Как будто в бурях есть покой!
«I’ve ceased to be, but you’re alive / The wind is whimpering and sobbing. / It rocks the forest and the cabin. / Under its force, the trees are bending In unison, not pine by pine, / Along with hills that seem unending, / Like wooden frames of yachts withstanding / The stormy gusts ...»
«I am dead, but you are living. / And the wind, moaning and grieving, / Rocks the house and the forest, / Not one pine after another / But further than the furthest / Horizon all together, / Like boat-hulls and bowsprits / In an unruffled anchorage, / Rocked not from high spirits / ...»
«Under a broom, entwined by ivy, / From rain, we’re hiding for the time. / A cloak protects our shoulders slightly, / My arms, around you, intertwined. No, I was wrong. Among these shrubs, / Not ivy, but green hop has widened. / So, should we spread this cloak, perhaps, / Over the gras...»
«The currant leaf is prickly and coarse. / The windows in the house ring with laughter. / There, women shred it, peppering the cloves, / And marinate it all soon after. The forest heaves, like a mocking scoffer, / All of this clamor onto the slope of the hill, / Where the sun-burned hazel ...»