To E. K. Gertsyk
When the love of flesh fades,
So goes the desire to create.
Your fingers don’t long to handle clay
Or chisel shadows into marble.
Your song halts in mid-word,
The brush freezes in mid-stroke —
Surprise…how little they matter.
Farewell, farewell to you, sublime lust!
The spirit’s last lingering joy.
Е. К. Герцык
Кто разлюбляет плоть, хладеет к воплощенью:
Почти не тянется за глиною рука.
Уже не вылепишь ни льва, ни голубка,
Не станет мрамором, что наплывает тенью.
На полуслове — песнь, на полувзмахе — кисть
Вдруг остановишь ты, затем что их — не надо...
Прощай, прощай и ты, прекрасная корысть,
Ты, духа предпоследняя услада!
«There was only one game now lacking: / Pursed my lips and a whistle blew. / Foolish glory thus sent I packing, / Cause of scandal and foul mouthed too. Ach! how comical is the losing! / Life is full of this kind of loss. / Can’t deny if you are accusing – / Faith I had in that god o...»
«I have got but one only fun left: / Fingers mouthed, and a whistle of cheer. / An ill fame has swept o’er that I am / A vulgarian, a debauchee. Ah, how paltry, how trifling the waste is! / Trifling losses are plenty around. / Having had faith in God is shameful. / Having no faith is ...»
«Out-up is a crescent; down, a wind is blowing. / Settling poplar wool is silvery and glowing. Far ‘talianka* sobbing, solitary descant, / Is so sweetly homey and so sadly distant. Crafty runs now giggle, now burst out crying. / Where are you, my linden? Age ol' mine, where are you? Once, ...»
«The grove of golden trees has fallen silent, / Shorn of its gay leaves, in mute silhouette, / And so the cranes in sad file past it flying / Have no cause any more to feel regret. For whom, for what? We are all rovers, starting / Out, coming home awhile, then traveling on. / The hemp fiel...»