From a Wayfarer's Letters
II
I have treated my heart with a ruthless abandon
In poetry, in friendship, in grief and in passion.
Forgive me, my darling. Let bygones be bygones.
I suffer. Yet all this is joy in its fashion.
And even my black fits of burning depression,
The starting at shadows, the nervous reaction
To trifles which nourish my fearful obsession
With doom and disastei, are joy in their fashion.
I care not if I choke on these tears' salt insurgence,
Reproaches may flay me, like wet branches lashing.
More fearful by far are indifference, indulgence.
Love never forgives, yet is joy—in its fashion.
For love brooks no rival, expects no compassion.
Love — now I know it — can kill and destroy,
Just so long as it's beautiful, live and impassioned,
Just so long as it's not a mere pastime, but joy.
Я сердце своё никогда не щадила:
Ни в песне, ни в дружбе, ни в ни в страсти…
Прости меня, милый. Что было, то было
Мне горько. И всё-таки всё это — счастье.
И то, что я страстно, горюче тоскую,
И то, что, страшась небывалой напасти,
На призрак, на малую тень негодую.
Мне страшно… И всё-таки всё это — счастье.
Пускай эти слёзы и это удушье,
Пусть хлещут упрёки, как ветки в ненастье.
Страшней — всепрощенье. Страшней — равнодушье.
Любовь не прощает. И всё это — счастье.
Я знаю теперь, что она убивает,
Не ждёт состраданья, не делится властью.
Покуда прекрасна, покуда живая,
Покуда она не утеха, а — счастье.
«Once, when the dreams would bloom — the times were those — / In peoples hearts, transparent and aflame, / How fresh, how beautiful have been the roses / Of my love, of my spring, and of my fame! The years have passed, many a tear flows — / The country and its people all are lost. / ...»
«Nightingales of monastery garden, / Like all nightingales flying above, / Say that there is but one joy in living, / And that this joy comes in form of love. And the monastery meadows flowers / With the tenderness just flowers possess, / Say theres but one merit: Lovers / Touch their li...»
«My fields, my wave-like, foaming fields! / With autumn spinach, brown as if of bricks, / And lettuce, clover, heather and daisy. / How much the eyes can hear and ears can see! I walk along the side of the river. / The wildflowers shine like sapphire / Leaning beneath the wheats golden fra...»
«Youre in no way like other women at all: / You have laughter controlled and expressive, / You wear dresses measured and fashionably long / And you slip out from my embraces. You do not cut your hair to look upscale, / Deepen brows or wear make up, / You have Smirnoff, but also a nightinga...»