I do not
regret, and I do not shed tears,
All, like
haze off apple-trees, must pass.
Turning
gold, I"m fading, it appears,
I will not
be young again, alas.
Having got
to know the touch of coolness
I will not
feel, as before, so good.
And the land
of birch trees, - oh my goodness!-
Cannot make
me wander barefoot.
Vagrant"s
spirit! You do not so often
Stir the
fire of my lips these days.
Oh my
freshness, that begins to soften!
Oh my lost
emotions, vehement gaze!
Presently I
do not feel a yearning,
Oh, my life!
Have I been sleeping fast?
Well, it
feels like early in the morning
On a rosy
horse I"ve galloped past.
We are all
to perish, hoping for some favour,
Copper
leaves flow slowly down and sway...
May you be
redeemed and blessed for ever,
You who came
to bloom and pass away...
1921
No comments:
Post a Comment