Through the consoling April sun
the breeze, so very unconsoling,
a sandy whirlwind on the road —
shutting up the chattering starling.
Up above the northern latitudes,
dark grey clouds are bulking high.
Bowler hats get pulled down tight —
but these two dandies let theirs fly.
And under the noise of the rumbling hail,
the proud and wicked heart revives:
«That's our very own lightning-crack,
the wingbeat as our spring arrives!»
Сквозь уютное солнце апреля —
Неуютный такой холодок.
И — смерчом по дорожке песок,
И — смолкает скворец-пустомеля.
Там над северным краем земли
Черно-серая вздутая туча.
Котелки поплотней нахлобуча,
Попроворней два франта пошли.
И под шум градобойного гула —
В сердце гордом, веселом и злом:
«Это молнии нашей излом,
Это наша весна допорхнула!»
«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. ...»
«5 Ever so softly / With a hand slim and careful / I loosen the trammels: / Little hands — and obedient / To the neighing, the Amazon rustles / Off on the ringing, empty steps of parting. In the radiant flyway / The winged one tramples / And neighs. — Dawn’s flare in the eyes. ...»