I shall soon fall prey to rot.
Though it's hard to die, it's good to die;
I shall ask for no one's pity,
And there's no one who would pity me.
With my lyre I won no glory
For my noble family name;
And I die as distant from my people
As the day that I began to live.
Ties of friendship, unions of the heart —
All are broken: from my youth,
Fate has sent me foes implacable,
While my friends all perished in the struggle.
Their prophetic songs were left unfinished,
They fell victim to misfortune, were betrayed
In the bloom of life; and now their portraits watch me
From the walls, reproachfully.
Скоро стану добычею тленья.
Тяжело умирать, хорошо умереть;
Ничьего не прошу сожаленья,
Да и некому будет жалеть.
Я дворянскому нашему роду
Блеска лирой своей не стяжал;
Я настолько же чуждым народу
Умираю, как жить начинал.
Узы дружбы, союзов сердечных —
Всё порвалось: мне с детства судьба
Посылала врагов долговечных,
А друзей уносила борьба.
Песни вещие их не допеты,
Пали жертвою злобы, измен
В цвете лет; на меня их портреты
Укоризненно смотрят со стен.
«From the mind’s dreams, from the bile’s rage, / Goddess of Faithfulness, keep your slave. With cast-iron hoops bind tight her breast, / Goddess of Faithfulness, be her nest. Remove from the shrub all flowers and pips, / Make her mouth numb, then seal her lips. As safe as bone encased ...»
«When parched with thirst, give me water, / One glass, or else I’ll die. / Persistently — languidly — melodically — / I pledge my feverish cry Repeated at length — yet still more fiercely, / Once more — again / Tossing all night long for sleep, / Aware all sleep is spent. ...»
«After a sleepless night my body grows weaker, / Becomes sweet and no one’s — no longer mine. / In the slow veins the arrows still flicker, / And like a seraph, I smile at passers-by. After a sleepless night my arms grow languid; / Friend or foe, my indifference is complete. / A full r...»
«It's dreadful! It drips and it listens: / Does nobody else in the world / Press branches, like lace, in a window' / Or is there...a witness? The ground is so swollen and smothered, / Too spongy, too heavy to breathe / But listen — far off, as in August — / How midnight grows ripe in...»