Towards light-blue enamel air,
Which April easily created
The birches raised their branches, bare
And into twilight slowly faded.
An ornament, so fine and dainty
Like lacework in a skillful pattern,
Seemed a design, precisely painted
On an exquisite china platter.
As if an artist used his palette
Adorning delicate glassware,
Aware of his transient talent —
Of death impending unaware.
На бледно-голубой эмали,
Какая мыслима в апреле,
Березы ветви поднимали
И незаметно вечерели.
Узор отточенный и мелкий,
Застыла тоненькая сетка,
Как на фарфоровой тарелке
Рисунок, вычерченный метко, —
Когда его художник милый
Выводит на стеклянной тверди,
В сознании минутной силы,
В забвении печальной смерти.
«I don’t know if you’re dead or still living, / If I should seek you on earth, or alas, / Sitting pensively, in the evening, / Warmly grieve for the one who has passed. All to you: Daily prayer and thought, / And insomnia’s feverish rise, / The white flock of the poems I wrote, / A...»
«I don't know if you're alive or dead. / Can you on earth be sought, / Or only when the sunsets fade / Be mourned serenely in my thought? All is for you: the daily prayer, / The sleepless heat at night, / And of my verses, the white / Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire. No-one was mor...»
«I'll leave your quiet yard and your white house — / Let life be empty and with light complete. / I'll sing the glory to you in my verse / Like not one woman has sung glory yet. / And that dear girlfriend you remember / In heaven you created for her sight, / I'm trading product that is ...»
«I have not heard the tales of Ossian, / I have not tasted age-old wine — / why then do I seem to see a field / and Scotland's murderous moon? And in the sinister silence I seem to hear / the roll-call of the raven and the harp, / and, streaming in the wind, the scarves of men-at-arms / ...»