Nature is Rome, and is reflected there.
We see images of citizen's parades
Like in blue circus, in transparent air,
On forum of the fields and forest's collonades.
Nature is that same Rome, and once more
We do not need to worry Gods in guilt,
From animal entrails to divine of war,
To pray that slaves be quiet and stones be built.
Природа — тот же Рим и отразилась в нем.
Мы видим образы его гражданской мощи
В прозрачном воздухе, как в цирке голубом,
На форуме полей и в колоннаде рощи.
Природа — тот же Рим, и, кажется, опять
Нам незачем богов напрасно беспокоить, —
Есть внутренности жертв, чтоб о войне гадать,
Рабы, чтобы молчать, и камни, чтобы строить!
«I blurred at once the chart of trite routine / by splashing paint with one swift motion. / I showed upon a plate of brawny glutin / the slanting cheekbones of the ocean / Upon the scales of tinny fishes / new lips summoned, though yet mute. / But could you / play / right to the finis...»
«The buzz subsides. I have come on stage. / Leaning in an open door / I try to detect from the echo / What the future has in store. A thousand opera-glasses level / The dark, point-blank, at me. / Abba, Father, if it be possible / Let this cup pass from me. I love your preordained desig...»
«February. Take ink and weep, / write February as you’re sobbing, / while black Spring burns deep / through the slush and throbbing. Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks, / through bell-towers’ and wheel noise, / go where the rain-storm’s din breaks, / greater than crying or ink emp...»
«The noise dies. I walk on stage. / Leaning on the door’s frame, / from the far echo I try to gauge / what they’ll put against my name. Night’s shadow is focused on me, / through a thousand opera-glasses. / Abba, Father, if it may be, / see that this cup passes. I love your stubbo...»