Against the pale-blue enamel
that April makes conceivable,
the branches of birch trees will stand
and gradually ripen to evening.
Their pattern is sharp and complete,
that stiffened gauze is fine,
like a drawing that somebody’s neatly
traced out on a plate of china.
Some merciful artist performs
a design on the glassy heavens,
knowing the transience of such force,
oblivious to the sorrow of death.
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.
«And I shall tell you at the end: / farewell, don’t pledge self to love, helpless. / I go mad, or just ascend / to the high echelon of madness. How had you loved? — You’d put aside / even the Death. But ‘tis not matter. / How had you loved? You’d done that right, / but you ...»
«No, tsarevich, it’s not I — / That you’re fancying in bliss, / Know, my lips just prophesy, / And no longer kiss. And it’s not because I’m tortured / Or by delirium swayed / That I conjure up misfortune: / It is just my trade. I can teach you this, as well, — / To achieve...»
« Out of your memory, I will remove this day, / So that your helpless gaze can question in a drowse: / Where I did see the Persian lilac sway, / The little swallows, and the wooden house? Hearing my name, you’re going to recall / Unnamed desires’ anguish in a snap, / And in despondent...»
«He didn’t glorify or scold me / Like enemies might or friends. / He left his soul for me and told me: / Keep it safe in your hands. I’m concerned with one thing only: / What to do if he should die, — / An angel will take him from me / And return his soul to the sky. How will I co...»