All that was in the soul, all was lost again;
I lay down in the grass, sad and bored,
And a flower lifted its lovely form above me,
A grasshopper standing in front of it on guard.
Then I opened the weighty volume I had before me,
And on the first page saw a drawing of a plant.
Black, dead, the truth of the flower reached out
From the book towards nature — or was it the lie it contained?
And the flower, surprised, gazed at its reflection,
Tried to absorb its strange and alien wisdom.
A tremor of thought, unwonted, passed through its leaves,
In an effort of will that cannot be conveyed.
And the grasshopper raised its trumpet, and nature awoke —
The wistful creature sang a Gloria to the mind.
And in my old book the flower's likeness stirred,
So that my heart stirred too and moved towards it.
Все, что было в душе, все как будто опять потерялось,
И лежал я в траве, и печалью и скукой томим.
И прекрасное тело цветка надо мной поднималось,
И кузнечик, как маленький сторож, стоял перед ним.
И тогда я открыл свою книгу в большом переплете,
Где на первой странице растения виден чертеж.
И черна и мертва, протянулась от книги к природе
То ли правда цветка, то ли в нем заключенная ложь.
И цветок с удивленьем смотрел на свое отраженье
И как будто пытался чужую премудрость понять.
Трепетело в листах непривычное мысли движенье,
То усилие воли, которое не передать.
И кузнечик трубу свою поднял, и природа внезапно проснулась.
И запела печальная тварь славословье уму,
И подобье цветка в старой книги моей шевельнулось
Так, что сердце мое шевельнулось навстречу ему.
«Out of the smoky air now are plucked down / Stars for the past week frozen in flight. / Head over heels reels the skaters' club, / Clinking its rink with the glass of the night. Slower, slower, skater, step slow-er, / Cutting the curve as you swerve by. / Every turn a constellation / Sc...»
«She came in out of the frost, / her cheeks glowing, / and filled my whole room / with the scent of fresh air / and perfume / and resonent chatter / that did away with my last chance / of getting anywhere in my work. Straightaway / she dropped a hefty art journal / onto the floor /...»
«Over the meadows, beyond the mountains, / there once lived a painter called Klee, / and he sat on his own on a path / with various bright-coloured crayons. He drew rectangles and he drew hooks, / an imp in a light-blue shirt, / Africa, stars, a child on a platform, / wild beasts where S...»
«You're not alone. You haven't died, / while you still,beggar-woman at your side, / take pleasure in the grandeur of the plain, / the gloom, the cold,the whirlwinds of snow. In sumptuous penury, in mighty poverty / live comforted and at rest — / your days and nights are blest, / your s...»