Pain’s quieter — your hand,
Whitebodied color of magnolia — your hand.
Love knocked on my door at wintery midday,
And holding a sable fur — your hand.
Ah, like a butterfly, touched down on the stem of
My hand for a moment — no longer — your hand!
And what my enemies and I extinguished,
And what we didn’t conquer was set on fire by your hand:
All the fiery tenderness within me was set aflame,
O, empress of self-wills, by your hand!
Straightaway laid on my heart (I won’t complain:
Isn’t this heart yours?) — your hand.
Утишительница боли — твоя рука,
Белотелый цвет магнолий — твоя рука.
Зимним полднем постучалась ко мне любовь,
И держала мех соболий твоя рука.
Ах, как бабочка, на стебле руки моей
Погостила миг — не боле — твоя рука!
Но зажгла, что притушили враги и я,
И чего не побороли, твоя рука:
Всю неистовую нежность зажгла во мне,
О, царица своеволий, твоя рука!
Прямо на сердце легла мне (я не ропщу:
Сердце это не твое ли!) — твоя рука.
«Bursting into the house like startled thunder / The first one comes, breathless, laughing, / Fluttering at my throat and spinning / To the sound of its own applause. Another is born in the silence of midnight, / Stealing upon me from who knows where. / It peers at me from an empty mirror,...»
«Did Beatrice have Dantesque visions? / Did Laura write Petrarchan sonnets: / I’ve taught women to speak, O God — / But how can I teach them silence?»
«Wrung-out insomnias, / Pooled wax at the base / Of a guttering candle, / The morning’s first sound / Of a hundred white bells. / Warm sills under Chernigov moons. / Bees and clover, darkness and dust, / Suffocating heat.»
«Again Chopin’s polonaise is being played, / Oh my God! — how many fans, / And downcast eyes, and tender mouths, / But how close is betrayal, how it rustles. Music’s shadow flickered on the wall, / But did not touch the greenish moonlight. / Oh, how many times I turned cold here / ...»