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.
«7 In the pine-tree, tenderly tenderly, / finely finely: something hissed. / It is a child with black / eyes that I see in my sleep. From the fair pine-trees hot / resin drips, and in this / splendid night there are / saw-teeth going over my heart.»
«8 Black as — the centre of an eye, the centre, a blackness / that sucks at light. I love your vigilance Night, first mother of songs, give me the voice to sing of you / in those fingers lies the bridle of the four winds. Crying out, offering words of homage to you, I am / only a shell whe...»
«9 Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping. / In the cradle a child is screaming. / An old man sits over his death, and anyone / young enough talks to his love, breathes / into her lips, looks into her eyes. Once asleep — who knows if we’ll wake again? / We have time, we have time, we...»
«10 Here’s another window / with more sleepless people! / Perhaps — drinking wine or / perhaps only sitting, / or maybe two lovers are / unable to part hands. / Every house has / a window like this. A window at night: cries / of meeting or leaving. / Perhaps — there are many...»