Во всем мне хочется дойти…


In all I want to attain
To the inmost part–
In work, in searching for the way,
In troubles of the heart.

To the essence of bygone days
To their causes
To roots, to foundations,
To the very core!

Always gathering up the links
Of fate and happenings–
To love, to live, to feel, to think,
To discover things.

Oh if it was only mine
At least in part
To write in some eight lines
The passions of the heart.

The lawlessness and waste
The flights and chases
The surprises caught in haste
The shovings, the embraces.

Love’s rules I could frame
And her prognostic
And I could repeat her names
Like an acrostic.

I’d lay out a park of my lines
Veins quivering the while
Of lime-trees blooming in a line
From behind, Indian-file.

In my lines I’d put the roses’ smell,
The smell of mint
Meadows, sedge, men digging a well,
And the lightning’s glint.

So once did Chopin enclose
The living moods
Of farms, parks, tombs and groves
In his etudes.

The triumph of the achieved thing
Has playing and pain:
In the tightly-drawn bowstring
Of the bow under strain.


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