Who answered me in the forest grove?
Did an old oak whisper to a pine,
Or a mountain ash creak far away,
Or the okarina of a goldfinch sing,
Or a robin, my little pet,
Call suddenly at sunset?
Who answered me in the forest grove?
Did you remember
One spring, our past,
Our cares and troubles,
Our wanderings apart,
You, who singed my heart?
Who answered me in the forest grove?
Morning and evening, in cold and heat,
I still hear the faint echo,
The sigh of an unbounded love,
And my trembling poems
Straining towards you from my palms.
Кто мне откликнулся в чаще лесной?
Старый ли дуб зашептался с сосной,
Или вдали заскрипела рябина,
Или запела щегла окарина,
Или малиновка, маленький друг,
Мне на закате ответила вдруг?
Кто мне откликнулся в чаще лесной?
Ты ли, которая снова весной
Вспомнила наши прошедшие годы,
Наши заботы и наши невзгоды,
Наши скитанья в далеком краю, —
Ты, опалившая душу мою?
Кто мне откликнулся в чаще лесной?
Утром и вечером, в холод и зной,
Вечно мне слышится отзвук невнятный,
Словно дыханье любви необъятной,
Ради которой мой трепетный стих
Рвался к тебе из ладоней моих...
«Ever since St. Agrafena’s day, / He has kept my crimson shawl. / He gloats like King David, enthralled. / His frosty cell has walls of gray, / And no one talks to him at all. I’ll go to his door and stand in his way, / “Return my shawl to me!” I’ll say. »
«With you, I will not drink wine. / All because, you’re naughty and sly. / I know — it’s normal for your kind, / To kiss any girl beneath the night sky. But we have — quiet, peaceful skies / By God’s grace. And there’s no command for bright ...»
«The evening at the desk, in peace, / The page is white beyond repair. / Mimosa smells of warmth and Nice / A large bird flies in moonlit glare. / And, plaiting my braids for the night, / As if I must wear them tomorrow, / I stare at the sandbars outside / And the sea, no longer in sorr...»
«In my long dark braids interwoven / Is a delicate silvery strand, — / Voiceless nightingale, such torment, / Only you could understand. You hear everything around you, / Ruffled, breathless, gazing straight / At the willow’s fronds — astounded, / If a stranger’s song is played....»