Brooding, dark, and elegant —
Stranger, aren't you the man
who frightened the children yesterday?
«Mama!» they shouted, «he's wicked!» and ran.
You went to visit my sweetheart
where she took the evening air,
said: «Permit me to introduce myself...»
And laughed: «...how beautiful you are...»
She twisted the ring on her finger,
smiled like any coquette, and said:
«Sir, I've heard of your wicked adventures—
but why is your glove stained red?»
«Believe me, Lady,
those stories aren't true—
Do I look like an evil adventurer?
I'm only as old as you.»
«Oh sir, I can hardly believe that...
you have such melancholy eyes!»
Strands of spider-glitter drifted
in the water-mirrored skies.
Two figures were seen on the pathway,
the little boat was gone...
And a long embrace of water
silenced my sweetheart's moan.
Смугол, темен и изящен,
Не от тебя ли, незнакомец, вчера
С криком «Маменьки! он страшен!»
Разбежалась детвора?
Ты подошел, где девица:
«Позвольте представиться!»
Взял труд поклониться
И намекнул с смешком: «Красавица!»
Она же, играя перчаткой,
Тебя вдруг спросила лукаво:
«О сударь с красною печаткой,
О вас дурная очень слава?»
«Я не знахарь, не кудесник,
Верить можно ли молве?
Знайте, дева, я ровесник
<. . . . . . . . . .>
Она же: «Извините!
Задумчивый какой!»
Летят паучьи нити
На синий водопой.
Пошли по тропке двое,
И взята ими лодка.
И вскоре дно морское
Уста целовало красотке.
«The vanished joy of my crazy years / Is as heavy as gloomy hang-over. / But, like wine, the sorrow of past days / Is stronger with time. / My path is sad. The waving sea of the future / Promises me only toil and sorrow. But, O my friends, I do not wish to die, / I want to live –...»
«Of madness years the faded joy and laughter / Weigh gravely like a hazy morning after. / And yet the sorrows of the finished page, / Like fancy wine, still stronger get with age. / My way lies dreary. Work and grief are written / In what’s to come, which like the sea is smitten. But, o...»
«The sultry sun heats to the seventh sweat. / The ravine rages in the frenzy, senseless. / As though a cowgirl working in the stead, — / The spring is busy, and its chores are endless. Out in the light, the snow-banks slowly slump, / Their bloodless, twig-like veins turn paler still. / ...»
«Oh my dear maple, frozen stiff and bare, / Why do you stand bending in the blizzard there? / / Have you seen a vision? Have you heard a babble? / Just like you are out for an idle ramble. / / Like a tipsy warden, walking on the roadside, / You have stuck in snowdrift, hit by burnin...»