I know a woman, full of silence,
Her bitter weariness from words,
Dwells in mysterious, blinking eyelids
Their widened pupils, secret worlds.
Her soul is greedily wide open
To copper music of sweet verse.
To life, that’s worldly, pleasant often,
She’s deaf and lofty, lust-averse.
Without a noise, without hurry,
So strangely smooth her walk and fine,
Can’t call her beautiful, but surely
In her all bliss of mine I find.
And when I long to have my own way,
I'm brave and proud, for her I seek,
I rush to learn this wise and sweet pain
In her nice raving and fatigue.
She shines in hours of hard yearning
And holds bright lightnings in her hand,
Her dreams are sharp, like shadows, churning
On Heaven’s scorching, fiery sand.
Я знаю женщину: молчанье,
Усталость горькая от слов,
Живет в таинственном мерцаньи
Ее расширенных зрачков.
Ее душа открыта жадно
Лишь медной музыке стиха,
Пред жизнью дольней и отрадной
Высокомерна и глуха.
Неслышный и неторопливый,
Так странно плавен шаг ее,
Назвать нельзя ее красивой,
Но в ней все счастие мое.
Когда я жажду своеволий
И смел, и горд — я к ней иду
Учиться мудрой сладкой боли
В ее истоме и бреду.
Она светла в часы томлений
И держит молнии в руке,
И четки сны ее, как тени
На райском огненном песке.
«Come celebrate, kinsmen, the twilight of freedom, / The darkening conscience, the great year obscured; / Into the boiling waters of nightfall / A heavy forest of nets is let down. / The days of your rising are numb, / O sun, judge, people! Come glorify the deafening hour: / We take the ...»
«Sisters — heaviness and tenderness — your signs are so alike! / Bees and wasps suck at a heavy rose. / A man dies, the heated sand cools down / And yesterday’s sun is carried out on a black litter. Ah! heavy honeycombs and tender nets. / To lift a stone is lighter than to repeat your ...»
«Take for joy from my outstretched palms / A little honey and a little sun / As we were implored by the bees of Proserpine. No one can loose a boat that is unmoored. / No one can hear the shadow shod in fur. / One cannot track down fear in the dense forest of life. We are left only with kis...»
«Through the dark gypsy camp, the streets of night, I shall be rushing / Seeking a blossoming alder branch in a black-springed sleigh, / For a bonnet of snow I shall be searching, for the endless mill-wheel noise. I remember a chestnut strand of hair — as a misfired shot / Smoked through wit...»