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.
«I’d like to pry your journey path, / Your station, terminus / From an obscure mirror depth / In slumber fogginess. I glimpse a tall ship and its mast, / You’re standing on the deck... / You’re on a train, in smoking cars / The fields rue at sunset... The evening fields are wet wi...»
«Oh, the flippancy, charming crime, / My companion, and my sweet foe! / You splashed laughter into my eyes, / Spiked my blood with mazurka flow. Taught that keeping the wedding band, / Doesn't matter, together or parting! / Willy-nilly to start at the end, / And to quit before even start...»
«Remembering the last night vision, / Caressed under a velvet throw. / What happen then? And who was winning? / Who’s overthrown? Rethinking everything all over, / Tormented over and above, / I could not name it, could not know it, / Or was it love? Who was the hunter, who was hun...»
«At sunset the crimson light weaves across the lake, / In the grove wood grouses cry with a strident clang. Out an oriole laments, holed up in a tree. / I alone don’t feel like crying, filled with joyful glee. You would slip away to me in the evening dusk, / We would sit in fresh cut hay un...»