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.
«There are twins. For the earthborn / they are gods, Death and Sleep, / like brother and sister wondrously akin, / Death's the gloomier, Sleep is gentler. But there are two more twins: / there are no finer twins in the world, / and there's no fascination more fearsome / than he who's sur...»
«The telephone rang. / “Hello! Who’s there?” / “The Polar Bear.” / “What do you want?” / “I’m calling for the Elephant.” / “What does he want?” / “He wants a little Peanut brittle.” / “Peanut brittle!.. / And for whom?” “It’s for his little Elephan...»
«From the cycle LENIN I Lenin has the spirit of an Old Believer, / Intones his decrees like a priest, / And looks to the Pomorian Responses1 / For the source of all our grief. Now the land belongs to the peasants, / The Church is no longer a state serf. / Now a bright new word chimes for...»
«I was walking along an unfamiliar street, / And suddenly heard a cawing of crows, / And resonant lutes, and distant rumbling, / — Before me a streetcar flew. How I leapt to its platform / Was a riddle to me, / Even in the light of day / It left a fiery trail in the air. Rushing ahead...»