Let me, my starling,
get into your little house!
Take me up into your bird's residence!
I'll give up my soul and heart in pledge
for your blue snowdrops!
The spring whistles, sings, pipes, mumbles!
Silver and white poplars are in the water
up to knees!
The maples wake up from long winter dream,
Their leaves, like butterflies, flap the wings!
There are muddle and mess on the fields,
Brooks and streams are talking
nonsense everywhere!
Let us all leave the garrets and
Let's throw ourselves in the groves!
Please, my starling, start your serenade!
You are our first singer, who got
Through many trials of the historical
kettle-drums!
You are our first spring singer from
the birch conservatory!
Please, open your show, the whistling
and piping bird!
Throw to the back your little pink head!
Turn upside down the radiant, shining,
Beaming sinsitivity of the chords and strings
In the troats of the birch groves!
I, may be, could try to do it myself,
But the butterfly-wanderer whispered into my ear:
"If you'll yell and shout
at the top of your voice in the spring,
Then, in the summer time,
you'll break your vocal chords!
Oh, spring! You are so beautiful and chirming!
The lilac branches embrace my soul...
Please, lift the starling house, my heart,
Above your magic spring gardens!
My little starling, settle down
on the high punt-pole,
Braze into spring sky, my dilightful bird,
Stick to the Star by your cute web —
Together with your bird's patters!
Turn to the world outlook by your
bird's little face
And uphold the honour of magic spring flowers —
blue snowdrops!
Travel with another bustling starling bird
by the spring fields!
Уступи мне, скворец, уголок,
Посели меня в старом скворешнике.
Отдаю тебе душу в залог
За твои голубые подснежники.
И свистит и бормочет весна.
По колено затоплены тополи.
Пробуждаются клены от сна,
Чтоб, как бабочки, листья захлопали.
И такой на полях кавардак,
И такая ручьев околесица,
Что попробуй, покинув чердак,
Сломя голову в рощу не броситься!
Начинай серенаду, скворец!
Сквозь литавры и бубны истории
Ты — наш первый весенний певец
Из березовой консерватории.
Открывай представленье, свистун!
Запрокинься головкою розовой,
Разрывая сияние струн
В самом горле у рощи березовой.
Я и сам бы стараться горазд,
Да шепнула мне бабочка-странница:
«Кто бывает весною горласт,
Тот без голоса к лету останется».
А весна хороша, хороша!
Охватило всю душу сиренями.
Поднимай же скворешню, душа,
Над твоими садами весенними.
Поселись на высоком шесте,
Полыхая по небу восторгами,
Прилепись паутинкой к звезде
Вместе с птичьими скороговорками.
Повернись к мирозданью лицом,
Голубые подснежники чествуя,
С потерявшим сознанье скворцом
По весенним полям путешествуя.
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