Our rooms are turned to rolling wagons
With wheels that creak on roads of air;
And down below, the moony water
Is playing gently with green hair.
We travel over crystal bridges,
Across the earth, across the sky.
Its red cheek pressed against our windows,
The sun sings out as we roll by.
And every heart's a summer beehive
Blazing with a dark honeyed gleam,
As though we were the lucky first ones
To bend our heads above the stream.
We do not know who leads us onward,
What end our hurrying wheels will find,
But, like a bird set free, the spirit
Darts on a wing that rips the wind.
Наши комнаты стали фургонами,
Заскрипели колес обода —
А внизу волосами зелеными
Под луною играет вода.
И мы едем мостами прозрачными
По земле и по небу вперед.
Солнце к окнам щеками кумачными
Прижимается и поет.
В каждом сердце — июльский улей
С черным медом и белым огнем —
Точно мы впервые согнули
Свои головы над ручьем.
Мы не знаем, кто наш вожатый,
И куда фургоны спешат,
Но, как птица из рук разжатых,
Ветер режет крылом душа.
«The rules of winter we obey. / We roll a snowball and run after, / Acclaim its growth with peals of laughter, / And brush the surplus snow away. As if misfortune were in view, / The people passing by assemble / Along the fence with lips atremble / To watch what you and I shall do. We m...»
«I watch the scooter's flight / And feel my envy growing! / My eyes are hot and bright / With summer's quick tears flowing. A girl with winning smile / Clings closely to the rider. / A humpy sluggish snail / Do I appear beside her. Farewell! Ride at your ease / To where green summits ...»
«Our sacred craft has existed / For thousands of years.... / With it, luminous even in darkness is earth. / But no poet has ever insisted, / Through laughter or tears, / That there is no wisdom, no age, no death.»
«In all the world no people are so tearless. / So proud, so simple as are we. / 1922 In lockets for a charm we do not wear it, / In verse about its sorrows do not weep, / With Eden's blissful vales do not compare it, / Untroubled does it leave our bitter sleep. / To traffic in it is a t...»