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.
«All of men are choosing for themselves / Girl of dream, religion and own road, / And to serve to devil or (and) prophet / Every man is choosing for himself. All of men are choosing for themselves / Word for love as well as word for prayer, / Duel’ sword as well as sword for battle / E...»
«Eyelashes, eyelashes / Bowing down. / With the shame of eyelashes / Eclipsed — suns in the arrows' crown! / How clear and how loud! / And his cloak was red / And white was his stallion. Embarrassed is the rider, / Proud is the stallion. / On the dead serpent / The whitest stalli...»
«O heaviness of success! / Slight of victory! / George, you cry, / Like a beautiful lady / You pale at the deed / Of your two / Suddenly alien to you / Hands. Horse is squeamish of the serpent, / You are squeamish of the voice / Of victory. Like heavy oil / The blood pours. / T...»
«Celestial glow / And blue versts! / Glory George / The Victorious! Pearly branches / Of midnight, proclaim / The clean youth / The marvelous man: His fiery mantle, / His spear's song / Glory the blood-boiling / Stallion. = = = O great masts / And each proud village! / Glor...»