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.
«Years of my youth, years of dissipation, / I poisoned you myself with a deadly poison. I do not know if death is close at hand or far. / My eyes which once were blue no longer are. Where are you, happiness? I weep, I cringe, all’s dark. / You’re nowhere to be found. Outside or in the bar...»
«Ah, old lady, are you still alive? / I am, and I give you welcome. / May this unearthly evening light / Flood down on the old home. They tell me you hide your alarm. / But that I soon made you despair. / You often go out on the road / In a dress old-fashioned and threadbare. In the blu...»
«Now piece by piece we slip away / To that far land of peace and grace. / And perhaps must soon collect / My perishable chattels and set out. Sweet birch groves, and you, earth, / And you, sands of the plain! / I lack The strength to hide the dread aroused / By this horde of party souls....»
«The moon's still out. / Night has still not budged, / just ruling, unaware / that day is coming to, / albeit lazily and timidly. / Ray after ray creeps out of cloud, / though night in majesty / still shines across the sky. / Just give it three or four more moments / and night will ...»