I shall not lie to find a lurid rhyme,
Honoured master, no harsh words from you:
Since the cot your choice has not been mine,
I can only do what I can do.
How heartily I thank relentless Fate
For the prickly Muse that I’ve been given:
The path we walk is ours, though it be strait,
She and I aren’t fellow-travelling women.
Ради рифмы резвой не солгу,
Уж не обессудь, маститый мастер, —
Мы от колыбели разной масти:
Я умею только то, что я могу.
Строгой благодарна я судьбе,
Что дала мне Музу-недотрогу:
Узкой, но своей идем дорогой.
Обе не попутчицы тебе.
«Washed my face outside; the night had laid / Chillness on the water barrel brimming; / Coarse like salt upon an axe’s blade, / Stars upon the firm night skies were gleaming. Tightly locked, the gateway won’t get loose. / And the earth is not exactly gentle – / Purer than a canvas...»
«Vast poignant sadness opened wide / Two sudden eyes, enormous, gleaming, / The flower vase awoke from dreaming, / Out splashing came the crystal tide. The room is soaked in sunny peace / Of lounging – what a luscious potion! / A kingdom of such small proportion / Has swallowed so ...»
«Upon the paling blue veneer / That is conceivable in mid-spring, / The birch-tree branches reappeared / And quietly settled into evening. The pattern was precise and fair, / A web unmoved and finely sewn, / A drawing done on porcelain ware, / With lines immaculately drawn, — A darl...»
«On the pale-blue enamel, / that April can bring, / birch branches’ imperceptible / sway, slipped towards evening. A network of finely etched lines, / is the pattern’s finished state, / the carefully-made design, / like that on a porcelain plate, the thoughtful artist set, / on th...»