Pavillions spread over the square,
The maple leaves kiss the stars.
It's night — a celebration there,
Merriment and festivity in the park.
But when a pyrotechnist hurls
A silvery light from tree-tops to sky,
Poet, don't put your trust
In the night's fantastic bursts.
The rocket will fly off and die,
Its fiery sparks will grow dim...
But a poet's heart shines forever
In the pure depths of a poem.
Расступились на площади зданья,
Листья клена целуют звезду.
Нынче ночью - большое гулянье,
И веселье, и праздник в саду.
Но когда пиротехник из рощи
Бросит в небо серебряный свет,
Фантастическим выстрелам ночи
Не вполне доверяйся, поэт.
Улетит и погаснет ракета,
Потускнеют огней вороха...
Вечно светит лишь сердце поэта
В целомудренной бездне стиха.
«Decrepit, with no more teeth, / A scroll of years on her horns. / The rough herdsman has been beating her / On the fields she crossed. Her heart doesn’t fancy noise; / Mice are scratching in the corner. / She is thinking sad thoughts / About a white-legged calf. They never gave the m...»
«Now the golden leaves have started spinning / On the pinkish water of the pond, / Dainty flock of butterflies now thinning, / Heading for a star they will abscond. Love for evening’s now begun to smoulder, / Yellow valley’s hue to heart I’ve cleaved. / Nascent wind upon the birch’...»
«My love has changed. I know you feel / Upset about the situation: / The crescent's sweeper couldn't spill / The pools of lyrical creation. / / Upset, but taking in good part / The star that fell upon your brows, / You spilt you heart about the house / But there's no house in you...»
«Don’t berate me! It just so happens — / I'm no type to sell words off-rack. / Golden head of mine, growing heavy, / Has reclined altogether back. Neither town nor the country endear me: / That my love should have still been true! / I’ll quit everything. Grow a beard, / And move of...»