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You

Нет тебя тревожней и капризней…

No one’s more restless, no one’s more capricious,
but I gave myself to you, oh long ago,
because when you choose to you blend
many, many lives into one.

And today: grey sky,
a weary dull day, and long,
and out in the park, on the wet grass,
there were no children playing leapfrog.

You sat looking at old prints,
head propped on your hand,
and all the idiotic figures
marched dully by.

“Look, my dear: a bird.
And here’s a man on a fast horse.
But what a strange frown
on this fat alderman’s face!”

And later you read me a prince’s story,
a gentle prince, pious, pure,
and as you turned the pages
the tip of your little finger touched my sleeve.

But when the day-noises stopped
and the moon rose over the city,
you suddenly twisted your hands together
and turned miserably pale.

And confused, shy,
I said nothing, but I dreamed this:
that you too could hear the sweet violin
singing of a golden paradise.

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