Languor-wing flies in the middle of fable,
made breathless by a girl's charms;
tangled in nets of golden wool
Let me die here in your arms.
Неголь сладко-нежной сказки,
Мленник дивных девьих ног,
Я в сетях златой повязки,
Я умру в твоих руках.
«1 Tower-bell striking / There in the Kremlin. / Where on the earth is, / Where — Fortress of mine, / Meekness of mine, / Valor of mine, / Holy of mine. Tower-bell striking, / Left-behind striking. / Where on the earth is — / My / Home, / My — dream, / My — laugh,...»
«2 I lift the hands that I let fall / So long ago. / Into a black and empty window / Empty hands / I fling into mid-nocturnal striking / Clocks — I want / To go home! — Like this: head first / — From the tower! — Homeward! Not onto the cobbled square: / Into rustle and wh...»
«3 Harder and harder / Start wringing my hands! / Between us not earthly / Versts — but divisive / Celestial rivers, azure nations, / Where my friend is forever already — / Inalienable. The high road races / In silvery harness. / I don’t wring my hands! / I only extend them ...»
«4 Cover the bedstead / In swarthy olive. / The gods are jealous / Toward mortal love. Each rustle to them / Is distinct, each swish. / Know, this young man is dear / Not to you alone. Some one is incensed / With his luscious May-day. / Mind you, be wary / Of sharp-eyed heaven. ...»