On the curved sea-shore in Fancy-land there is an evergreen oak; on the oak is hung up a golden chain: all day and night the versed tame cat keeps stalking on the chain around; when it goes to the right it begins to sing a song, when it goes to the left it proceeds to tell a tale.
There are so many various miracles: there the wood-goblin wanders and the siren on the branches sits; on the unknown paths there are the traces of unprecedented beasts; the cabin without doors and windows there lies on piles; there hill and dale are full of ghosts; there waves gush over the both sandy and deserted coast and then thirty fine handsome heroes with their marine drill-master in single file leave clear waters; there a young prince takes off-hand the terrible king prisoner; there in the clouds in the face of people the sorcerer bears away the warrior-champion over forests and seas; there in the dark dungeon a beautiful princess bitterly grieves and the brown wolf faithfully serves her; there the mortar of wood with the old witch moves by itself; there the covetous king fretting over heaps of gold fades, falls away and shrivels; there is the free spirit there...
it there smells with freedom.
For you, the queens of my soul, Only for you, the beauty, To the whisper of the old talkative days The fables of the immemorial times By my confident hand In golden leisure I wrote.
Accept the playful work! Without demanding praises I am happy with the alone sweet hope That at my sinful songs A maid filled with the thrill of love Will have a look perhaps on the sly.
My darling, you know, on the earth there is not The stable happiness: neither a noble family, Nor beauty, any power or richness, Nothing can pass a trouble, And also you and I, sweetheart,-isn't that so? We were happy, at least I did By you and with your love.
Whatever may happen with me in future, Wherever may I be, I'll always remember you, My dear; I lose you now and nothing in the world Will ever be like you to me.
Cleopatra and her lovers.
I swear...
oh, mother of pleasures, My service to you is unprecedented.
On the bed of passionate temptations As some simple mercenary I ascend.
Hear then, the powerful Venus and you, Underground deities of the terrible Hades, I swear, yet by the dawn my masters' desires With all secrets of kissing And with the marvelous bliss I will voluptuously satisfy.
However, as soon as the purple Of eternal Aurora will flash, I swear-under the mortal axes The heads of the lucky dogs are to fall.
No, I do not esteem the rebellious happiness, Sensual ecstasy, madness and frenzy, Groaning, shouting of the young bacchante, When, wriggling and coiling up in my hugs like a snake, With the blast of ardent caresses and the ulcer of kisses She hurries a sweet instant of the last lovely vibrating! Oh, my meek, what you are the difference! Oh, what the painful pleasure you grant me, When you are cold and shy, Tender but without any excitement, To my long entreaties yielding, You give yourself up to me, to my delight Hardly responding, without anything heeding, Then you grow more and more lively And here at last against your will You share my fever with me! There is an ecstasy both in fight And on the edge of the gloomy chasm, And at the furious ocean, Amid the terrible waves and rough obscurity, And in the Arabian hurricane, And also in the whiff of the plague.
I can remember the wonderful instant: When in front of me you appeared, As a transient fleeting vision, Like some genius of the pure beauty.
In depression of the grief hopeless, In troubles of the noisy vanity To me long the gentle tender voice sounded And also the lovely sweet features dreamt ardently.
There passed years.
Of the storms an impulse rebellious Had dispersed all my former dreams, I had completely forgotten your voice gentle And also your heavenly features.
In solitude, in the gloom of exile, My days without life lasted sadly, Without a muse and a deity, Without tears and love.
To my soul has come awakening: And here you again has appeared, As a transient fleeting vision, Like some genius of the pure beauty.
And now my heart beats in ecstasy, And for it again have revived Both a muse and a deity, And life, and tears, and love.
I loved you: my love perhaps still In my soul has died away not absolutely; But let it any more does not disturb you; I don't wish you to grieve with anything at all.
I loved you hopelessly in silence Now quailing, now being jealous; I loved you so sincerely and gently, As may God grant you to be favorite by another.
Only since my lyre arouses good feelings People shall be for ever pleased with me, Because in my severe time I adored Freedom, And to mercy regarding the wretched called.
Oh muse, without fearing insults, Without demanding a laurel wreath Praise and slander accept indifferently, To Providence without fail be obedient And also don't challenge a fool.
How much better to live To that, my dear fellow, Who is not ill with stupid passions, Who has no time to fall in love, Who is busy with all Or who is pleased with everything.
He knows neither grief nor sorrow; His fun is endless and infinite, Carefree one, having created Mentally his own seraglio, He is blissfully happy in it.
It's hard to wear the heavy crown of the ancient monarch.
My Lord, still who are to reign and rule the nation? That's more than not too old legend, but one believe it not.
The hardhearted is weaker than the gentle, And fear lives in the soul of the one Who is overwhelmed with passions.
There are so many various miracles: there the wood-goblin wanders and the siren on the branches sits; on the unknown paths there are the traces of unprecedented beasts; the cabin without doors and windows there lies on piles; there hill and dale are full of ghosts; there waves gush over the both sandy and deserted coast and then thirty fine handsome heroes with their marine drill-master in single file leave clear waters; there a young prince takes off-hand the terrible king prisoner; there in the clouds in the face of people the sorcerer bears away the warrior-champion over forests and seas; there in the dark dungeon a beautiful princess bitterly grieves and the brown wolf faithfully serves her; there the mortar of wood with the old witch moves by itself; there the covetous king fretting over heaps of gold fades, falls away and shrivels; there is the free spirit there...
it there smells with freedom.
For you, the queens of my soul, Only for you, the beauty, To the whisper of the old talkative days The fables of the immemorial times By my confident hand In golden leisure I wrote.
Accept the playful work! Without demanding praises I am happy with the alone sweet hope That at my sinful songs A maid filled with the thrill of love Will have a look perhaps on the sly.
My darling, you know, on the earth there is not The stable happiness: neither a noble family, Nor beauty, any power or richness, Nothing can pass a trouble, And also you and I, sweetheart,-isn't that so? We were happy, at least I did By you and with your love.
Whatever may happen with me in future, Wherever may I be, I'll always remember you, My dear; I lose you now and nothing in the world Will ever be like you to me.
Cleopatra and her lovers.
I swear...
oh, mother of pleasures, My service to you is unprecedented.
On the bed of passionate temptations As some simple mercenary I ascend.
Hear then, the powerful Venus and you, Underground deities of the terrible Hades, I swear, yet by the dawn my masters' desires With all secrets of kissing And with the marvelous bliss I will voluptuously satisfy.
However, as soon as the purple Of eternal Aurora will flash, I swear-under the mortal axes The heads of the lucky dogs are to fall.
No, I do not esteem the rebellious happiness, Sensual ecstasy, madness and frenzy, Groaning, shouting of the young bacchante, When, wriggling and coiling up in my hugs like a snake, With the blast of ardent caresses and the ulcer of kisses She hurries a sweet instant of the last lovely vibrating! Oh, my meek, what you are the difference! Oh, what the painful pleasure you grant me, When you are cold and shy, Tender but without any excitement, To my long entreaties yielding, You give yourself up to me, to my delight Hardly responding, without anything heeding, Then you grow more and more lively And here at last against your will You share my fever with me! There is an ecstasy both in fight And on the edge of the gloomy chasm, And at the furious ocean, Amid the terrible waves and rough obscurity, And in the Arabian hurricane, And also in the whiff of the plague.
I can remember the wonderful instant: When in front of me you appeared, As a transient fleeting vision, Like some genius of the pure beauty.
In depression of the grief hopeless, In troubles of the noisy vanity To me long the gentle tender voice sounded And also the lovely sweet features dreamt ardently.
There passed years.
Of the storms an impulse rebellious Had dispersed all my former dreams, I had completely forgotten your voice gentle And also your heavenly features.
In solitude, in the gloom of exile, My days without life lasted sadly, Without a muse and a deity, Without tears and love.
To my soul has come awakening: And here you again has appeared, As a transient fleeting vision, Like some genius of the pure beauty.
And now my heart beats in ecstasy, And for it again have revived Both a muse and a deity, And life, and tears, and love.
I loved you: my love perhaps still In my soul has died away not absolutely; But let it any more does not disturb you; I don't wish you to grieve with anything at all.
I loved you hopelessly in silence Now quailing, now being jealous; I loved you so sincerely and gently, As may God grant you to be favorite by another.
Only since my lyre arouses good feelings People shall be for ever pleased with me, Because in my severe time I adored Freedom, And to mercy regarding the wretched called.
Oh muse, without fearing insults, Without demanding a laurel wreath Praise and slander accept indifferently, To Providence without fail be obedient And also don't challenge a fool.
How much better to live To that, my dear fellow, Who is not ill with stupid passions, Who has no time to fall in love, Who is busy with all Or who is pleased with everything.
He knows neither grief nor sorrow; His fun is endless and infinite, Carefree one, having created Mentally his own seraglio, He is blissfully happy in it.
It's hard to wear the heavy crown of the ancient monarch.
My Lord, still who are to reign and rule the nation? That's more than not too old legend, but one believe it not.
The hardhearted is weaker than the gentle, And fear lives in the soul of the one Who is overwhelmed with passions.
SHARE
