To Khodasevich
A childhood memory: those pears,
wrinkled, little, tight,
and hidden inside
tart flesh that puckered the mouth:
exactly so my delight
in the bitter shards of your verse.
С детства помню: груши есть такие —
сморщенные, мелкие, тугие,
и такая терпкость скрыта в них,
что едва укусишь, — сводит челюсть:
так вот для меня и эта прелесть
злых, оскомистых стихов твоих.
«E’er since eternal judge gave me / A prophet’s proud omniscient manner, / In people’s eyes I’m wont to see / The wicked sway of vice’s banner. When I began to tell of love / And truth in all its purest teaching: / My fellows in a pressing shove / Stoned me, in spite of all bes...»
«A floweret, withered, odorless / In a book forgot I find; / And already strange reflection / Cometh into my mind. Bloomed, where? when? In what spring? / And how long ago? And plucked by whom? / Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? / And wherefore left thus here? Was it in ...»
«If by life you were deceived, / Don't be dismal, don't be wild! / In the day of grief, be mild / Merry days will come, believe. Heart is living in tomorrow; / Present is dejected here; / In a moment, passes sorrow; / That which passes will be dear.»
«Should this life sometime deceive you, / Don't be sad or mad at it! / On a gloomy day, submit: / Trust — fair day will come, why grieve you? Heart lives in the future, so / What if gloom pervade the present? / All is fleeting, all will go; / What is gone will then be pleasant.»