My friend, I'm really just sorry
about who, in secret blindness,
passing all length of the green alley,
just can not notice on leaves
the striking network of the streaks
and points of the tubercles
or even the serrated tracks
from saws of the blue-horned slugs.
Мой друг, я искренно жалею
того, кто, в тайной слепоте.
пройдя всю длинную аллею,
не мог приметить на листе
сеть изумительную жилок,
и точки жёлтых бугорков,
и след зазубренный от пилок
голуборогих червяков.
«Sunlight fills my room / With hot dust, lucent, grey. / I wake, and I remember: / Today is your saint’s day. / That’s why even the snow / Is warm beyond the window, / That’s why, sleeplessly, / Like a communicant, I slept.»
«Evening hours at the desk, / The page irremediably white, / The mimosa’s scent is of Nice, warmth, / Over the moon some vast bird flies. And, twining my braids for night, / As if I must wear them tomorrow, / I look from the window at sand-dunes, sea, / Free of sorrow. How much power ...»
«Irreparably white the page. Long hours / Spent vainly at a desk. Of warmth and Nice / Smell the mimosa's tiny, yellow flowers. / Caught by the moon's white ray, a large bird flies. It's bedtime, and my long hair plaiting tightly — / As though it mattered!- out the window I, / No longer ...»
«My heart beats smoothly, steadily, / What are long years to me? / Under the Galernaya arch, / Our shadows, for eternity. Through half-closed eyelids, / I see, I see that you’re with me, / And forever held in your hand / Is my unopened fan. Because we stood together, / In that bless...»