<1964>2{*}XXXIIDiana's bosom, Flora's dimpleare very charming, I agree —but there's greater charm, less simple,— the instep of Terpsichore.By prophesying to the eyea prize with which no prize can vie'tis a fair token and a snarefor swarms of daydreams. Everywhereits grace, sweet reader, I admire:at long-hemmed tables, half-concealed,in spring, upon a velvet field,in winter, at a grated fire,in ballrooms, on a glossy floor,on the bleak boulders of a shore.XXXIIII see the surf, the storm-rack flying....Oh, how I wanted to competewith the tumultuous breakers dyingin adoration at her feet!Together with those waves — how muchI wished to kiss what they could touch!No — even when my youth would burnits fiercest — never did I yearnwith such a torturing sensationto kiss the lips of nymphs, the rosethat on the cheek of beauty glowsor breasts in mellow palpitation —no, never did a passion rollsuch billows in my bursting soul.XXXIVSometimes I dream of other minutesby hidden memory retold —and feel her little ankle in itscontented stirrup which I hold;again to build mad builders start;again within a withered heartone touch engenders fire; again— the same old love, the same old pain…But really, my loquacious lyrehas lauded haughty belles too long— for they deserve neither the song,not the emotions they inspire:eyes, words — all their enchantments cheatas much as do their pretty feet.<Весна 1945>
What is my name to you? 'Twill die:a wave that has but rolled to reachwith a lone splash a distant beach;or in the timbered night a cry…'Twill leave a lifeless trace amongnames on your tablets: the designof an entangled gravestone linein an unfathomable tongue.What is it then? A long-dead past,lost in the rush of madder dreams,upon your soul it will not castMnemosyne's pure tender beams.But if some sorrow comes to you,
