The sparse, untidy, ginger-coloured curls
In meagre whisps about her head lie scattered;
Her little blouse is faded, old and tattered.
She looks a freak among the boys and girls
Playing around her, poor, misshapen creature
With crooked teeth and sharp, ungainly features.
Not far away two handsome little lads
Enjoy the bicycles just bought them by their dads.
They ride about with happy turns and twists,
While she runs, after, happy as the boys,
Though they are scarce aware that she exists.
Her heart is filled with other children's joys,
She laughs, their thoughtlessness forgiving,
An ugly little urchin with shrill voice,
In raptures at the sheer delight of living.
No shade of spite nor any evil notion
Has ever found its way into her head.
All in the world arouses her emotion,
All is alive to her which some of us think dead.
And as I look I try to quench the fear
That there must come a day, perhaps quite near,
When all her ugliness the child at last will know,
And life for her will be deprived of joy,
I would not think the heart is just a toy
That can be broken by a single blow;
I still would hope that the unblemished beacon
Which shines within her with such brilliant light,
Will overcome the pain and burn as bright,
Will brgve the worst of storms and never weaken.
Perhaps there is no beauty in her face
To captivate a man 's imagination,
And yet her soul is lit with such a grace
That fills each step with animation.
If she be ugly, what is beauty then?
Why is it worshipped everywhere by men?
Is all its value in the outward form,
Or is it something hidden, live and warm?
Среди других играющих детей
Она напоминает лягушонка.
Заправлена в трусы худая рубашонка,
Колечки рыжеватые кудрей
Рассыпаны, рот длинен, зубки кривы,
Черты лица остры и некрасивы.
Двум мальчуганам, сверстникам её,
Отцы купили по велосипеду.
Сегодня мальчики, не торопясь к обеду,
Гоняют по двору, забывши про неё,
Она ж за ними бегает по следу.
Чужая радость так же, как своя,
Томит её и вон из сердца рвётся,
И девочка ликует и смеётся,
Охваченная счастьем бытия.
Ни тени зависти, ни умысла худого
Ещё не знает это существо.
Ей всё на свете так безмерно ново,
Так живо всё, что для иных мертво!
И не хочу я думать, наблюдая,
Что будет день, когда она, рыдая,
Увидит с ужасом, что посреди подруг
Она всего лишь бедная дурнушка!
Мне верить хочется, что сердце не игрушка,
Сломать его едва ли можно вдруг!
Мне верить хочется, что чистый этот пламень,
Который в глубине её горит,
Всю боль свою один переболит
И перетопит самый тяжкий камень!
И пусть черты её нехороши
И нечем ей прельстить воображенье, —
Младенческая грация души
Уже сквозит в любом её движенье.
А если это так, то что есть красота
И почему её обожествляют люди?
Сосуд она, в котором пустота,
Или огонь, мерцающий в сосуде?
«1 O muse of weeping, the most beautiful muse! / O you the child of white night, ever mad and fierce! / A black snowstorm over Russia you send / And your cries our hearts like flying arrows pierce. And we tumble down and a deaf "Oh" — / A hundred thousand people your name are calling: / ...»
«2 What are people's wiles to me? Holding / My head I stand, / On late dawn I sing / Holding my head. Ah, I have been raised on the crest / Of a wave wrathful and mad! / I sing you, that you are alone among us, / Like moon overhead! That, having flown like a raven on the heart, / Pie...»
«3 Just one more gigantic flap — / Eyelids are quiet. / O, dear body! O the ash / Of bird so light! I sang and waited, what I did / In fog of day. / So little body was in her, / And so much sigh. Her dreamy sleepiness is not / Humanly dear. / Something of eagle and of angel / ...»
«4 Mother's name is Anna, / Lev — of the child. / In his name is fury, / In her is quiet. / Red is his hair — / Tulip's head! / So, Hossanah / To the little tsar! God give him lungs / And the smile of Mom / And a look of / Pearl-seeking one. / God, attentively / Look aft...»