Attractive smiles of hers were meant
The Poet’s love to tantalize,
It wasn’t love that's backward sent
By his appriciating eyes:
It was a lovely gracious dream,
Light dream of His imagination.
It wasn't love: Apollo's beam
Served for the poet's inspiration.
А. С. Пушкину
Она улыбкою своей
Поэта в жертвы пригласила,
Но не любовь ответом ей,
Взор ясный думой осенила.
Нет, это был сей лёгкий сон,
Сей тонкий сон воображенья,
Что посылает Аполлон
Не для любви, для вдохновенья.
«Nothing chains a heart to heart, / If you’d like to leave. / Many joys will life impart / On the one who’s free. I don’t cry, complain or pout, / Mine is not a life of bliss. / Do not kiss me, all worn out, — / Death will come to kiss. Bitter languor has been weathered / With...»
«Here we’re all drunkards and whores, / Joylessly stuck together! / On the walls, birds and flowers / Pine for the clouds and air. The smoke from your black pipe / Makes strange vapours rise. / The skirt I wear is tight, / Revealing my slim thighs. Windows tightly closed: / Who’s ...»
«...And no-one came to meet me / Carrying a lantern. / The house quiet: my entry / By moonlight uncertain. Under the green lamp, / His smile was lifeless, / Whispering: "Cinderella, / How strange your voice..." Flames of the fire dying: / Wearily, cricket chirping. / Ah! Someone’s...»
«My imagination, obediently, / Conceives grey eyes. / In Tver, in my solitude, / It’s you I bitterly remember. Happily captive in another’s arms, / On the left bank of the Neva, / My famed contemporary, / You have all that you desired; You who told me: Enough, / Go now, quench you...»