Our Passion’s still carefree, still young,
still hasn’t cut her teeth, —
she isn’t vodka, nor spirits, but she’s no longer water —
she’s a bubbly, rakish, chiming Asti.
You don’t know yet to turn pale when I’m close,
your pupil doesn’t fill your whole eye yet,
but I know the spell I’ve placed you in
is stronger than Kashin or Kashira.
Oh, where’s that small town lost in the gardens
(maybe it’s not even on the map?),
toward which my dream is sprinting
in some sixteen-year-old passion?
Where’s the jasmined house, with its open night,
and above us, hops, in their curling arches,
and a thirst that can’t be helped,
and the sky, and the sky more romantic than Petrarch’s sky!
On the eve of my last or my next-to-last spring
— oh, how late our meeting finally came! —
with you, I dream madcap dreams,
in a crazy, magic fire I burn up my own twilight!
Она беззаботна еще, она молода,
Еще не прорезались зубы у Страсти, —
Не водка, не спирт, но уже не вода,
А пенистое, озорное, певучее Асти.
Еще не умеешь бледнеть, когда подхожу,
Еще во весь глаз твой зрачок не расширен,
Но знаю, я в мыслях твоих ворожу
Сильнее, чем в ласковом Кашине или Кашире.
О, где же затерянный этот в садах городок
(Быть может, совсем не указан на карте?),
Куда убегает мечта со всех ног
В каком-то шестнадцатилетнем азарте?
Где домик с жасмином, и гостеприимная ночь,
И хмеля над нами кудрявые арки,
И жажда, которой уж нечем помочь,
И небо, и небо страстнее, чем небо Петрарки!
В канун последней иль предпоследней весны
— О, как запоздала она, наша встреча! —
Я вижу с тобой сумасшедшие сны,
В свирепом, в прекрасном пожаре сжигаю свой вечер!
«I have not heard the tales of Ossian, / I have not tasted age-old wine — / why then do I seem to see a field / and Scotland's murderous moon? And in the sinister silence I seem to hear / the roll-call of the raven and the harp, / and, streaming in the wind, the scarves of men-at-arms / ...»
«For joy’s sake, from my hands, / take some honey and some sun, / as Persephone’s bees told us. Not to be freed, the unmoored boat. / Not to be heard, fur-booted shadows. / Not to be silenced, life’s dark terrors. Now we only have kisses, / dry and bristling like bees, / that die ...»
«Take — for the sake of joy — out of my palms / a little sunlight and a little honey, / as we were told to by Persephone’s bees. You can’t untie a boat that isn’t moored, / nor can you hear a shadow shod in fur, / nor — in this dense life — overpower fear. The only thing that...»
«The flowers say good-bye to me, / They bend their heads and bow low down / Which means that I will never see / Her lovely face and my home town. / / Well, that"s the way it is, my love! / I saw them all in habitation, / I take this deathly trepidation / For tender feeling, still a...»