When a tired day bowed down to the night
The waves fell still, the birds wouldn’t fly,
The sun set down over the hills (what a sight!)
And musingly the moon floated in the sky.
In the vale, the peaceful silvery brook
Babbled sweet nothings to the hushed dale,
While dark forest, dreamily bowed and took
In the trills of the nightingale’s long tale,
Attentive to the songs and the quiet bustle,
The river whispered, caressing the banks.
On the hill above, the reeds gently rustled
Happily singing, (or giving their thanks).
Усталый день склонился к ночи,
Затихла шумная волна,
Погасло солнце, и над миром
Плывет задумчиво луна.
Долина тихая внимает
Журчанью мирного ручья.
И темный лес, склоняся, дремлет
Под звуки песен соловья.
Внимая песням, с берегами,
Ласкаясь, шепчется река.
И тихо слышится над нею
Веселый шелест тростника.
«My rhymes, so early written that an inkling / I hardly had I bore a poet's mark, / My rhymes, that burst as from a fountain sprinklings, / As from a rocket sparks, That broke, like little nymphs in devil's dresses, / Into a dormant, incense-breathing shrine, / My rhymes about death and ad...»
«When I await her at the midnight hour / Then life appears to hang by slender strand. / Who cares for honour, youth or freedom’s power / When piping guest arrives with flute in hand? / And here she is – from cloak now extricated, / Attentively on me she casts her eye. / I say: “Was ...»
«When at night I await the beloved guest, / Life seems to hang by a thread. “What is youth?” I demand / Of the room. “What is honor, freedom, the rest, / In the Presence of her who holds the flute in her hand?” But now she is here. Tossing aside her veil, / She considers me. “...»
«The Muse my sister looked in my face, / her gaze was bright and clear, / and she took away my golden ring, / the gift of the virginal year. Muse! everyone else is happy — / girls, wives, widows — all around! / I swear I’d rather die on the rack / than live fettered and bound. In...»