White and dishevelled, she looks outrageous,
Rushing about, brisk and courageous.
Dark is the night, it is scared to death, and
Clouds, like kerchiefs, have covered the crescent.
Wind, letting out hysterical hoots,
Whirls like a shot to the back of the woods.
Fir-trees are threatening to hit with a spear
Owls lie hidden, a-wailing from fear.
Waving her harridan's clutches, she shouts.
Up in the sky stars are winking from clouds.
Vipers, like rings, hanging down her hair,
Spinning with blizzard, she whirls in the air.
Ringing, the pines make the witch dance and cry.
Clouds grow dark as they, trembling, float by.
Косы растрепаны, страшная, белая,
Бегает, бегает, резвая, смелая.
Темная ночь молчаливо пугается,
Шалями тучек луна закрывается.
Ветер-певун с завываньем кликуш
Мчится в лесную дремучую глушь.
Роща грозится еловыми пиками,
Прячутся совы с пугливыми криками.
Машет колдунья руками костлявыми.
Звезды моргают из туч над дубравами.
Серьгами змеи под космы привешены,
Кружится с вьюгою страшно и бешено.
Пляшет колдунья под звон сосняка.
С черною дрожью плывут облака.
«Peace-loving Stassen who appears so pious / Is most inflammable and could well fry us. / He wears an olive branch in his lapel. / But sits on bombs like some hen doing well / In her present condition. Still he can / Consider any disarmament plan.»
«We enter — and our shocked hearts shudder... Cruel / Death, desolation, emptiness yawn here... / Where are the swans... and brooks? Where are the muses? / The beauty that from childhood we’ve held dear? Where are the gardeners? Where are the people / Who used to cherish peaceful parks l...»
«...I won’t give my enemies that consolation: / My death — hypocritically to deplore. / The hook where I’d hang myself is not yet driven, / Not yet forged. Not dug out from the earth as ore. / I’ll rise over all of my bottomless life, / The terrors, the whole iron anguish I knew. / ...»
«As a sad look I fancy autumn. / On a serene and misty day / To woods I often choose my way / And gratified there stay / Alone in pleasant mood begotten. / Beneath a pine in a land of needles, / While tasting lazily a berry, / I muse on matters sad and merry / And listen to wood...»