I have seen in a dream a juniper brush,
I have heard a distant metallical crush,
A ringing of amethyst berries I caught,
And quietly sleeping, I liked it a lot.
I sensed through the dream the sap in the air.
Looking in through the branches I was aware,
In the gloom of the wood, the arboreal shroud,
A hint of your smile could be made out.
Juniper bush, O juniper bush,
Treacherous lips that murmur and hush,
Delicate chatter whiffing of sap,
Piercing me with a death-dealing stab!
Golden skies on the other side of the glass
See the floating clouds coming to pass,
My garden is barren and nothing is lush...
May heaven forgive you, juniper bush!
Я увидел во сне можжевеловый куст,
Я услышал вдали металлический хруст,
Аметистовых ягод услышал я звон,
И во сне, в тишине, мне понравился он.
Я почуял сквозь сон лёгкий запах смолы.
Отогнув невысокие эти стволы,
Я заметил во мраке древесных ветвей
Чуть живое подобье улыбки твоей.
Можжевеловый куст, можжевеловый куст,
Остывающий лепет изменчивых уст,
Лёгкий лепет, едва отдающий смолой,
Проколовший меня смертоносной иглой!
В золотых небесах за окошком моим
Облака проплывают одно за другим,
Облетевший мой садик безжизнен и пуст…
Да простит тебя Бог, можжевеловый куст!
«I pray to the slender shaft of light / that pierces the window, pale and straight. / Since morning I have not spoken; / today my heart in two is broken. / The shiny brass on my wash-stand / has turned to verdigris of late. Yet the light that plays upon it / is a gladness to behold. / ...»
«We suffer equally this parting: / It is dark, and it is lasting. / Why weep? Give me your hand / Promise to come again in dreamland. / You and I are like grief upon dearest grief… / In this world, for us, there can be no meeting. / Just send me in the small hours, / via the stars, / ...»
«I hear caterwauling somewhere, / Distant footfalls echo in the night. / A fine lullaby to me you left! / The third month, this, since last I slept. You're with me once again, insomnia, / Your iron face closer than anything; / Beauty, lawless beauty that you are, / Really, don't you like...»
«My Sister, my Muse, looked into my face, / her glance both sharp and clear; / and she took away my golden ring, / Spring's first present of the year. / O Muse! You can see how happy they are, / the girls, the women and widows... / I would rather be broken on the wheel / than carry thes...»