William Shakespeare

SONNETS
translated by S. Ya. Marshak

We are waiting for the harvest from the best vines,
So that beauty lives without fading.
Let the petals of ripe roses wither,
The young rose keeps their memory.

And you, in love with your beauty,
All the best giving her juices,
Abundance turns into poverty, -
Your worst enemy, soulless and cruel.

You are the beauty of today
Herald of short-lived spring, -
Burying the future in its infancy,
You combine stinginess with waste.

Pitying the world, do not betray the earth
A great harvest for the coming years!

When your forehead is furrowed
Deep traces of forty winters,
Who will remember the regal attire,
Disdainful of your miserable rags?

And to the question: "Where are they hiding now
Remnants of the beauty of merry years?" -
What do you say? At the bottom of dead eyes?
But your answer will be an evil mockery.

The words would sound better:
"Look at my children.
My former freshness is alive in them,
They are the justification for my old age."

Let the blood run cold over the years
In your heir it burns again!

You see a beautiful face in the mirror
And if you do not hurry to repeat
You will offend your features, nature,
Deprive a woman of blessings.

What mortal wouldn't be glad
Give you untouched new?
Or you don't need immortality, -
How big is your love for yourself?

For mother's eyes you are a reflection
Long gone April days.
And you will find comfort under old age
In the same windows of your youth.

But, limiting life to their fate,
You yourself will die, and your image is with you.

Sweet squanderer, you squander
His legacy in an extravagant rampage.
Nature does not give us beauty,
But in debt gives - free free.

Pretty curmudgeon, you're happy to assign
That which is given to you for transmission.
Uncounted you hide the treasure,
It doesn't make you richer.

You make deals with yourself
Depriving yourself of the profits of the rich.
And in the terrible hour appointed by fate,
What account will you give in your embezzlement?

With you the image of the future,
Unincarnated, will be buried.

Sneak time with fine craftsmanship
A magical holiday poses for the eyes.
And the same time in a circular run
It takes away everything that makes us happy.

Hours and days unrestrained flow
Leads the summer into the twilight of winter days,
Where there is no foliage, the juice froze in the trees,
The earth is dead and a white cloak is on it.

And only the aroma of blooming roses -
Flying prisoner, locked in glass -
Reminds me of cold and frost
That summer was on earth.

The flowers have lost their former brilliance,
But they kept the soul of beauty.

See that a hard hand
Gray winter in the garden did not visit,
Until you pick the flowers, until
You can't pour spring into crystal phial.

Like a man, what a precious contribution
With more than abundant received back,
You will be glad to get yourself back
With a legitimate profit tenfold.

You will live ten times in the world
Repeated ten times in children,
And you will have the right in your last hour
Triumph over conquered death.

You are too generously endowed with fate,
May perfection die with you.

Burning head dawn
Raises from his bed,
And all earthly things send him greetings,
Radiant meeting the deity.

When in the prime of life, at noon,
The luminary looks from a steep height, -
With what delight millions of eyes
Follow the golden chariot!

When the sun completes the circle
And rolls wearily into the sunset,
The eyes of his worshipers and servants
Already looking the other way.

Leave your son, burying youth.
He will meet the sun of tomorrow!

You are music, but musical sounds
You listen with incomprehensible longing.
Why do you love what is so sad
Do you meet flour with such joy?

Where is the secret reason for this torment?
Is it because you are saddened
What harmoniously coordinated sounds
Sound like a reproach to loneliness?

Listen how friendly the strings are
They enter the ranks and give a voice, -
As if mother, father and young boy
They sing in happy unity.

We are told by the accord of strings in a concert,
That the lonely way is like death.

Must be afraid of widow's tears,
You have not tied yourself to anyone with love.
But if a formidable fate took you away,
The whole world would put on a widow's veil.

In her child, a mournful widow
Favorite features are reflected.
And you do not leave the creature,
In which the light would find consolation.

Wealth that wastes
Changing place, remains in the world.
And beauty will vanish without a trace
And youth, having disappeared, will not return.

Who betrays himself
Doesn't love anyone in this world!

In conscience, tell me: who do you love?
You know, many people love you.
But you are ruining youth so carelessly,
What is clear to everyone - you live without loving.

His fierce enemy, not knowing regret,
You destroy secretly day by day
Gorgeous, waiting to be updated,
Your inherited house.

Change - and I will forgive the offense,
In the soul love, not enmity warm.
Be as gentle as you look beautiful
And be kind and generous to yourself.

Let beauty live not only now,
But he will repeat himself in his beloved son.

We wither quickly - just as we grow.
We grow in descendants, in a new crop.
Excess strength in your heir
Consider it yours, cooling down over the years.

This is the law of wisdom and beauty.
And without him they would reign in the world
Madness, old age until the end of time
And the world would disappear in six decades.

Let the one who is not sweet to life and earth, -
Faceless, rude, - perishes irretrievably.
And you received such gifts,
That you can return them many times.

You are carved skillfully, like a seal,
To convey its imprint to the centuries.

When the clock tells me that the light
Will soon sink in the formidable darkness of the night,
When violets wither a delicate color
And the dark curl shines with gray hair,

When the leaves rush along the roads,
In the midday heat she kept herds,
And nods to us from the graveyard
Gray sheaves thick beard -

I think about your beauty
About her having to bloom
Like all the flowers of forests, meadows, fields,
Where the new is about to grow.

But if the sickle of death is implacable,
Leave posterity to argue with him!

Don't change, be yourself.
You can be yourself as long as you live.
When death destroys your image,
Let someone be like you.

Nature has given you beauty
For a very short time, and therefore
Let her rightfully pass
To your direct heir.

Beautiful home in caring hands
Do not flinch before the onslaught of winter,
And never reign in it
Breath of death, cold and darkness.

Oh, when your end comes
Words are heard: "I had a father!"

I'm not guessing about fate by the stars,
And astronomy won't tell me
What are the stars in the sky for the harvest,
To plague, fire, famine, war.

I don't know, bad weather or the weather
Promises a calendar in winter and summer,
And I can't judge by the sky
What happier will be the sovereign.

But I see in your eyes a harbinger
By the constant stars I know
That truth and beauty will be together,
When you prolong your life in descendants.

And if not - under the tomb
Truth will disappear along with beauty.

When I think that a single moment
Growth separates from decay,
That this world is a stage where the paintings
Are replaced by the sorcery of the stars,

That we are like shoots of tender plants,
Grow and destroy the same heaven,
That spring juice roams in us from a young age,
But our strength and beauty wither, -

Oh, how I treasure your spring
Your beautiful youth in bloom.
And time goes to war on you
And your clear day drives into darkness.

But let my verse, like a sharp garden knife,
Your age will be renewed by a new inoculation.

But if time threatens us with a siege,
Why, in the prime of life
You will not protect youth with a fence
More reliable than my barren verse?

You reached the top of the earthly path,
And so many young virgin hearts
Ready to repeat your gentle appearance,
How not to repeat a brush or cutter.

So life will correct everything that maims.
And if you give yourself to love,
She will immortalize you
Than this fluent, fragile pencil.

By giving yourself, you will keep forever
Himself in a new creation - in man.

How can I assure you of your virtues
Who will reach my page?
But God knows that this modest verse
Can't say more than the tomb.

I try to leave your portrait
To depict in verse a wonderful look, -
The descendant will only say: "The poet is lying,
Giving heavenly light to the face of the earth!"

And this old, yellowed leaf
He will reject, like a gray-haired talker,
Saying casually: "The old rogue is eloquent,
Yes, there is not a word of truth in his speeches!

But, live your son until these days,
You would live in it, as in my stanza.

Can I compare your features with a summer day?
But you are sweeter, more moderate and more beautiful.
The storm breaks May flowers,
And our summer is so short-lived!

Then the heavenly eye blinds us,
That bright face hides bad weather.
Caresses, undead and torments us
By its random whim, nature.

And your day does not decrease,
The sunny summer does not fade.
And a mortal shadow will not hide you -
You will live forever in the lines of the poet.

Among the living you will be until then,
As long as the chest breathes and sees the gaze.

You dull, about time, the claws of a lion,
Fangs from the mouth of a leopard tear,
Turn earthly creatures to dust
And burn the phoenix in its blood.

Winter, summer, autumn, spring
Replace smiles with tears, crying with laughter.
What you want to do with the world and with me -
You alone I forbid sin.

Chelo, cheeks of my friend
Do not furrow with your blunt incisor.
Let his beautiful features
For all times will serve as a model.

And if you don't feel sorry for him,
My verse will keep him beautiful!

The face of a woman, but stricter, more perfect
Nature has been sculpted by craftsmanship.
As a woman, you are beautiful, but alien to treason,
King and queen of my heart.

Your tender gaze is devoid of evil play,
But it gilds everything around with radiance.
He is courageous and majestic in power
Friends captivates and smits girlfriends.

You are the nature of a sweet woman
I thought, but, captivated by passion,
She separated me from you
And she made women happy.

So be it. But here is my condition:
Love me, and give them love.

I do not compete with the creators of one,
Which to the painted goddesses
The sky is presented as a gift
With all the earth and the ocean blue.

Let them decorate the stanzas
They repeat in verse, arguing among themselves,
About the stars of the sky, about the wreaths of flowers,
About the treasures of the earth and the sea.

In love and in the word - the truth is my law,
And I write that my dear is beautiful,
Like all who are born by a mortal mother,
And not like the sun or a clear moon.

I don't want to praise my love,
I'm not selling it to anyone!

Mirrors lie - what an old man I am!
I share your youth with you.
But if the days furrow your face,
I will know that I have been defeated by fate.

Like in a mirror, looking into your features,
I look younger to myself.
You give me a young heart
And I give you mine too.

Try to protect yourself
Not for yourself: you keep the heart of a friend.
And I'm ready, like a loving mother,
Protect yours from grief and illness.

One destiny for our two hearts:
Freeze mine - and yours is the end!

Like the actor who, timid,
Loses the thread of a long-familiar role,
Like that madman who, falling into anger,
In excess of strength loses willpower, -

So I am silent, not knowing what to say,
Not because the heart has cooled.
No, it puts a seal on my lips
My love has no limit.

So let the book speak to you.
Let her, my silent intercessor,
Comes to you with confession and prayer
And the just demands retribution.

Will you read the words of love dumb?
Can you hear my voice with your eyes?

My eye has become an engraver and your image
Imprinted in my chest truthfully.
Since then I have served as a living frame,
And the best thing about art is perspective.

Through the master look at the skill
To see your portrait in this frame.
The workshop that keeps it
Glazed with loving eyes.

My eyes are so friendly with yours
I draw you in my soul with mine.
Through yours from heavenly heights
The sun peeks into the workshop.

Alas, my eyes through the window
Your heart cannot be seen.

Who is born under a happy star -
Proud of fame, title and power.
And I was more modestly rewarded by fate,
And for me, love is the source of happiness.

Under the sun, the leaves spread luxuriantly
Confidant of the prince, henchman of the nobleman.
But the sun's benevolent gaze goes out,
And the golden sunflower goes out too.

Warlord, minion of victories,
In the last battle, he is defeated,
And all his merits lost track.
His destiny is disgrace and oblivion.

But there is no threat to my titles
Lifetime: loved, love, love.

Submissive tributary, loyal to the king,
I, driven by respectful love,
I am sending a written embassy to you,
Devoid of beauty and wit.

I did not find worthy words for you.
But, if you appreciate true feelings,
You are these poor and naked ambassadors
Dress with your imagination.

Or maybe the constellations that lead
Me ahead on an unknown path,
Unexpected brilliance and glory will give
My fate, unknown and miserable.

Then I will show my love
And for the time being, I melt it in the darkness.

Work exhausted, I want to sleep,
Blissful rest to find in bed.
But as soon as I lie down, I start on my way again -
In their dreams - to the same goal.

My dreams and feelings for the hundredth time
They come to you by the way of the pilgrim,
And without closing tired eyes,
I see the darkness that even the blind can see.

With the diligent gaze of the heart and mind
In the darkness I'm looking for you, devoid of sight.
And the darkness seems glorious
When you enter it as a light shadow.

I can't find peace from love.
Day and night, I'm always on the go.

How can I overcome fatigue
When am I deprived of the goodness of peace?
The troubles of the day are not relieved by the night,
And the night, like day, torments me with longing.

And day and night - enemies among themselves -
It's like they're shaking hands with each other.
I work during the day, rejected by fate,
And at night I do not sleep, sad in separation.

To win over the dawn,
I compared with you a fine day
And in the dark night he sent greetings,
Saying that the stars look like you.

But my next day is getting harder
And darker than the coming night is a shadow.

When in discord with the world and fate,
Remembering the years full of adversity,
I worry with a fruitless plea
Deaf and indifferent sky

And, complaining about the woeful lot,
Ready to change your lot
With those who are more successful in art,
Rich in hope and loved by people, -

Then, suddenly remembering you,
I swear a pitiful cowardice,
And a lark, contrary to fate,
My soul is on the rise.

With your love, with the memory of her
I am stronger than all the kings in the world.

When to the court of silent, secret thoughts
I invoke the voices of the past,
Losses all come to my mind
And the old pain I'm sick again.

From eyes that did not know tears, I pour tears
About those who are hidden in the darkness of the grave,
Looking for my lost love
And everything that in life seemed to me cute.

I keep track of what I lost
And I am horrified again by the loss of each,
And again I cry dearly
For what I already paid for once!

But the past I find in you
And he is ready to forgive his fate.

In your chest I hear all the hearts
What I thought was hidden in the graves.
In the beautiful features of your face
There is a reflection of faces that were once dear to the heart.

I shed many tears over them,
Bowing down at the grave stone.
But, apparently, rock took them away for a while -
And now we meet again.

They found their last shelter in you
Me close and memorable faces,
And everyone gives you a bow
My love is a wasted particle.

All dear in you I find
And all of you - all of them - belong.

Oh if you survive that day
When death covers me with a board,
And read these lines quickly,
Written by a friendly hand, -

Will you compare me and the youth?
Her art will be twice as high.
But let me be nice
The fact that in life it was full of you.

After all, if I had not lagged behind on the way, -
With the growing age could I grow
And the best would bring initiations
Among singers of a different generation.

But since they argue with the dead, -
There is love in me, appreciate the skill in them!

I watched the sun rise
caresses the mountains with a benevolent gaze,
Then he sends a smile to the green meadows
And gilds the surface of the pale waters.

But often the sky allows
Loitering clouds in front of the bright throne.
They crawl over the darkened world,
Depriving the earth of royal bounties.

So my sun rose for an hour,
Showering me generously with gifts.
A gloomy, blind cloud crept up,
And the gentle light of my love faded away.

But I do not grumble at the sad lot, -
There are clouds on the ground, as in the sky.

A glorious day was promised to me,
And without a cloak I left my house.
But the shadow caught up with me,
A storm came with hail and rain.

Let later, breaking through the clouds,
Gently touched my forehead
Beaten by the rain, your meek ray, -
You couldn't heal my wounds.

I'm not happy with your sadness
Your repentance does not please.
The sympathy of the offender is hardly
Heals ulcers burning resentment.

But your tears, pearl tears streams,
Like a downpour, washed away all your sins!

Don't be sad when you admit your guilt.
There is no rose without thorns; the purest key
Muddy grains of sand; sun and moon
Hides the shadow of an eclipse or clouds.

We are all sinners, and I am no less than all
I sin in any of these bitter lines,
Comparisons justify sin,
Forgiving unlawfully your vice.

As a defender I come to court
To serve the enemy side.
My love and hate lead
Internecine war in me.

Though you robbed me, dear thief,
But I share your sin and sentence.

I confess that two of us are with you,
Although in love we are one being.
I don't want my vice any
I lay down on your honor like a stain.

Let a thread bind us in love,
But in life we ​​have different bitterness.
She can't change love
But love steals hour after hour.

As a convict, I am deprived of the right
To recognize you openly in front of everyone,
And you can't accept my bow,
So that your seal does not lie on your honor.

Well, let it be! .. I love you so much.
That I am all yours and share your honor!

How pleases the father in the decline of days
Heirs of young courage
So. your righteousness and glory
I admire, ingloriously fading.

Generosity, nobility, beauty,
And a sharp mind, and strength, and health -
Almost every feature of you
Passed on to me with your love.

I'm not poor, I'm not weak, I'm not alone,
And the shadow of love that falls on me
Such bounty carries with it a stream,
That I live by one particle of it.

All that I can wish for you
It descends from you like grace.

Surely the muse lacks a theme,
When you can give so much
Wonderful thoughts that not all of us
Worthy of repeating on paper.

And if sometimes I'm worth something
Give thanks to yourself.
He is stricken with mental numbness,
Who will not say anything in your honor.

For us you will be the tenth muse
And ten times more beautiful than the rest
So that poems born once,
I could survive the suggested verse by you.

May future generations glorify
Us for the work, you - for inspiration.

Oh, how I will sing praise to you,
When we are one being with you?
You can't praise your beauty
You cannot praise yourself.

That's why we exist apart
To appreciate the charm of beauty
And for you to hear
The praise that only you deserve.

Separation is hard for us, like a disease,
But at times the lonely way
Leisure gives the happiest dreams
And let time deceive.

Separation divides the heart in half,
To glorify a friend it was easier for us.

Take all my passions, all my loves,
You will gain very little from this.
All that is called love by people,
And without that, it belonged to you.

You, my friend, I do not blame,
That you own what I own.
No, I will only blame you for one thing,
That you neglected my love.

You have deprived a beggar of his bag.
But I forgave the captivating thief.
We endure resentment love
Harder than the poison of open discord.

O you whose evil seems good to me.
Kill me, but don't be my enemy!

Careless resentment of youth,
What are you doing to me, not knowing yourself,
When I'm not in your mind -
To face your years, your features.

Friendly, you are surrounded by flattery,
Good-looking, you are open to temptation.
And before the caress of sophisticated wives
The woman's son can hardly resist.

But it's a pity that in abundance of young forces
You didn't bypass me
And he did not spare those heart ties,
Where was to break the duty double.

Unfaithful with its beauty, captivating,
You took the truth from me twice.

Half grief is that you own it,
But to recognize and see that she
Owns you - twice as painful for me.
The loss of your love is terrible for me.

I came up with an excuse for you:
Loving me, you loved her.
And sweetheart gives you goodbye
For the fact that you are infinitely sweet to me.

And if I need to lose, -
I give you my losses:
Her love was found by my beloved friend,
Beloved has found your love.

But if a friend and I are one and the same
That I, as before, is dearer to her than anything ...

Closing my eyelids, I see sharper.
Opening my eyes, I look, not noticing,
But the dark look of my eyes is bright,
When in a dream I turn them to you.

And if the night shadow is so bright -
Reflection of your obscure shadow, -
How great is your light on a radiant day,
How brighter is reality than dreams!

What happiness would be for me -
Waking up in the morning, see firsthand
That clear face in the rays of the living day,
What shone on me in a foggy dead night.

A day without you seemed like a night to me
And I saw the day at night in a dream.

Whenever this flesh becomes a thought, -
Oh, how easy, contrary to fate,
I could overcome the distance
And at the same moment I'm transported to you.

Whether I'm in any of the distant countries,
I would have passed distant lands.
Cross the ocean of thoughts
With the speed with which they set the goal.

Let my soul be fire and spirit
But behind the dream born in the brain
I, created from two elements -
Earth with water - I can not keep up.

Earth, - I'm rooted to the earth forever,
Water, - I pour streams of bitter tears.

The other two foundations of the universe -
Fire and air are lighter.
The breath of thought and the fire of desire
I send to you, despite the space.

When they are two free elements -
Love will fly to you as an embassy,
The rest stay with me
And burden my soul with weight.

I yearn, out of balance,
While the elements of spirit and fire
They won't rush back to me with the news,
That a friend is healthy and remembers me.

How happy I am! .. But again in a moment
Fly to you and thoughts and aspirations.

My eye to heart - has long been in the fight:
They cannot share you.
My eye demands your image
And the heart in the heart wants to hide.

The faithful heart swears that you
Invisibly to the eye, you are stored in it.
And the eye is sure that your features
He keeps in his pure mirror.

To resolve an internecine dispute,
Gathered thoughts at the court table
And decided to reconcile a clear look
And dear heart forever.

They divided the treasure into parts,
Trusting the heart to the heart, look - look.

The heart with the eye has a secret pact:
They relieve each other's pain
When your gaze searches in vain
And the heart suffocates in separation.

Your image of a keen eye
Gives and heart to admire plenty.
And the heart to the eye at its appointed hour
Dreams of love give way to share.

So in my thoughts or in the flesh
You are in front of me at any moment.
You can go no farther than a thought.
I am inseparable from her, she is with you.

My gaze draws you in a dream
And wakes up the heart sleeping in me.

Carefully preparing for a long journey,
I locked the knick-knacks
To encroach on my wealth
Some uninvited guest could not.

And you, whom I feel sorry for more than my life,
Before whom gold is a brilliant rubbish,
My joy and my sorrow
Any thief can kidnap you.

In what chest should I hide the deity,
To keep forever locked up?
Where, if not in the secret of my heart,
Where you are always free to leave.

I'm afraid you can't hide a diamond there,
Alluring to the most honest eyes!

On that black day (let it pass us by!),
When you see all my vices
When you run out of patience
And you will announce a cruel sentence to me,

When, converging with me in a crowd of people,
You can hardly give me a clear look,
And I will see cold and calm
In your face, still beautiful, -

That day will help my grief
Consciousness that I'm not worth you
And I will raise my hand in oath,
All justified by their wrongness.

You have the right to leave me, my friend,
And I have no merit for happiness.

How hard it is for me, kicking up dust along the way,
Waiting for nothing more
Count down sadly how many miles
I drove away from my happiness.

Tired horse, forgetting the former agility,
Barely cowards lazily under me, -
As if he knows: there is no need to rush
To those who are separated from their soul.

He does not obey the master's spurs
And only neighing sends me his reproach.
This moan hurts me more,
Than a poor horse - blows of spurs.

I think, looking longingly into the distance:
Behind me is joy, ahead is sadness.

So I justified the unbearable temper
Stubborn, lazy horse
Who was right in his stubbornness,
When he took me step by step into exile.

But it will be an unforgivable sin
Kohl he back just as lucky.
Yes, ride on a whirlwind, I'm riding,
I would think: how quietly he crawls!

The best horse will not catch up with desire,
When it gallops with a neigh.
It rushes easily like fire,
And he says to the laziest of the nags:

You, poor thing, take a step,
And I will rush on the wings ahead!

As a rich man, available to me at any
The moment is my treasure.
But I know that the edge is fragile
Happy minutes given to me by fate.

We have holidays, so rare in the year,
They bring more fun with them.
And rarely located in a row
Other stones are diamonds necklaces.

Let time hide like a chest
You, my friend, my precious crown,
But I'm happy when the diamond is my captive
It frees at last.

You give me the triumph of goodbye,
And the trembling joy of anticipation.

By what element are you born?
Everyone casts shadows one by one
And behind you a million winds
Your shadows, likenesses, reflections.

Imagine a portrait of Adonis, -
He is similar to you, like your cheap cast.
Elena in ancient times marveled at the light.
You are a new image of ancient art.

Innocent spring and mature year
Keeps your appearance, internal and external:
Like harvest time, you are full of bounty,
And the view of the day reminds spring.

All that is beautiful, we call yours.
But with what can a faithful heart be compared?

Beautiful is a hundred times more beautiful
Crowned with precious truth.
We appreciate the fragrance in delicate roses,
In their purple lives secretly.

Let the flowers, where vice has built a nest,
And the stem, and the thorns, and the leaves are the same,
And so the purple of the petals is deep,
And the same corolla that a fresh rose has, -

They bloom without pleasing hearts,
And wither, poisoning our breath.
And fragrant roses have a different end:

Their souls will be poured into fragrance.

When the sparkle of your eyes goes out,
All the beauty of the truth will be poured into verse.

Mossy marble of royal graves
Will disappear before these weighty words,
In which I saved your image.
The dust and dirt of centuries will not stick to them.

Let the war overturn the statues,
The rebellion will dispel the labor of masons,
But the letters embedded in the memory
Running centuries will not erase.

Neither death will carry you to the bottom,
No dark oblivion enmity.
You and distant offspring are destined,
The world is worn out, see the day of judgment.

So, live until you wake up
In verses, in hearts full of love!

Wake up love! Is your point
Dumber than the sting of hunger and thirst?
No matter how plentiful food and drink,
You can't ever get enough once.

So is love. her hungry eyes
Today, tired to the point of fatigue,
And tomorrow again you are enveloped in fire,
Born to burn, not decay.

For love to be dear to us
Let the ocean be the hour of separation
Let two, going to the shore,
Hands stretch out one to the other.

Let this hour be the winter cold,
May spring warm us up!

For faithful servants there is nothing else
How to expect the lady at the door.
So, ready to serve your whims,
I spend time waiting.

I don’t dare scold myself boredom,
Follow the hands of your watch.
I do not curse the bitter separation,
Leaving your door at a sign.

I do not allow jealous thoughts
Cross your treasured threshold,
And, poor slave, I consider myself happy
The one who could spend an hour with you.

Whatever you want to do. I lost my sight
And there is not a shadow of suspicion in me.

God save me, who deprived me of my will,
So that I dare to check your leisure,
Count the hours and ask: how long?
Servants are not consecrated into the affairs of masters.

Call me whenever you want
Until then, I'll be patient.
My destiny is to wait until you are free,
And hold back a reproach or an impulse.

Are you indulging in business or fun, -
You yourself are the master of your destiny.
And, having guilty before yourself, you have the right
Forgive yourself for your guilt.

In the hours of your worries or pleasures
I'm waiting for you in anguish, without judgment...

If there is no novelty in the world,
And there is only a repetition of the past
And in vain we must suffer,
Born long ago, giving birth again, -

Let our memory, running back
Five hundred circles that the sun outlined
Will be able to find in an ancient book
Your sweet face imprinted in the word.

Then I would know what they thought in those days
About this miracle, difficult to perfect, -
Did we go ahead, or did they,
Or this world has remained unchanged.

But I believe that the best words
In honor of the lesser deities were composed!

As the sea surf moves towards the earth,
So are the rows of countless minutes,
Replacing the previous ones
Alternately they run to eternity.

Infancy newborn sickle
Strives for maturity and finally,
Crooked eclipses having experienced damage,
Surrenders his golden crown in the fight.

The chisel of years in life on the forehead
Draws a strip behind the strip.
All the best that breathes on earth
Lies under a smashing scythe.

But time won't sweep away my line
Where will you abide in spite of death!

Is it your fault that your cute image
Doesn't let me close my eyelashes
And standing above my head
Heavy eyelids does not allow to close?

Does your soul come in silence
Check my deeds and thoughts
Reveal all lies and idleness in me,
All my life, as my destiny, to measure?

Oh no, your love is not so strong
To be my headboard,
My, my love knows no sleep.
On guard we stand with my love.

I can't sleep until
You - away from me - close to others.

Love for myself owns my eyes.
She penetrated my blood and flesh.
And is there a remedy on earth by which
I could overcome this weakness?

It seems to me that there is no equal beauty,
There is no one more truthful in the world.
I feel like I'm worth so much
Like no earthly creature.

When by chance in the mirror surface
I see my true image
In the wrinkles of years - looking at this image,
I confess to a fatal mistake.

I replaced myself, my friend, with you,
The passing age is a young fate.

About a rainy day when my love
How am I now, recognizes the burden of life,
When the blood dwindles with age
And a smooth forehead will cut time

When it comes to the end of the night,
After half a circle, a new luminary
And the sky will lose its colors,
In which the sun has just reigned, -

About a rainy day, I saved a weapon,
To fight death and oblivion
So that the beloved image does not fade away,
And he was an example to distant generations.

The weapon is a black line.
In it, all colors will survive the ages.

We saw how the hand of time
Tears off everything that time wears,
How they demolish the proud tower of the century
And destroys copper millennium burden,

Like span by span of coastal countries
The swell of the sea seizes the earth,
While the land robs the ocean,
Covering the expense with a powerful arrival,

How the cycle of days goes by
And the kingdoms are about to collapse...
Everything says that the hour will strike -
And time will take away my joy.

And this is death! .. My lot is sad.
What a fragile happiness I have mastered!

If copper, granite, land and sea
They won't stand when their time comes
How can it survive, arguing with death,
Is your beauty a helpless flower?

O bitter reflection!.. Where, what
Find a refuge for beauty?
How, stopping the pendulum with your hand,
Save the color from time to time?..

There is no hope. But the light face is cute
Save, perhaps, black ink!

I call death. I can't bear to see
Dignity that begs for alms
Over simplicity mocking lie,
Nothingness in luxurious attire,
And perfection is a false sentence,
And virginity, rudely desecrated,
And inappropriate honor shame
And power is a prisoner of toothless weakness,
And directness, which is reputed to be stupid,
And stupidity in the mask of a sage, a prophet,
And inspiration clamped mouth
And righteousness in the service of vice.

Everything is disgusting that I see around ...
But how to leave you, dear friend!

Ask: why does he live in vices?
To serve as an excuse for dishonor?
To honor sins
And cover the lie with your charm?

Why art dead colors
Are his faces stolen by spring fire?
Why slyly seeks beauty
Fake roses, fake jewelry?

Why does mother nature keep it,
When she is no longer able to
In his cheeks, the fire of shame burns,
Play with living blood in these veins?

Keep then, so that he knows and remembers the light
About what was and what is not!

His face is one of the reflections
Those days when there is beauty in the world
Bloomed freely, like a spring flower,
And not dressed in false colors,

When no one is in the cemetery fence
I did not dare to disturb the dead peace
And give a forgotten golden strand
The second life on the head of another.

His face is friendly and modest.
Mouths of counterfeit colors are devoid of.
In his spring there is no greenery borrowed
And the new does not rob the old.

It is kept by nature for comparison.
Beautiful truth with lies adornment.

In the external that the eye finds in you,
There is nothing to fix.
Enmity and friendship common verdict
Can't add dashes to the truth.

For appearance - external and honor.
But the voice of the same incorruptible judges
Sounds different when it comes down to it
About the properties of the heart, inaccessible to the eye.

Rumor talks about your soul.
And the mirror of the soul is its deeds.
And drowns out the weeds
The fragrance of your sweetest roses.

Your tender garden is neglected because
That it is available to everyone and no one.

Being scolded is not your vice.
The beautiful is doomed to rumor.
Reproach cannot denigrate him -
Crow in radiant blue.

You are good, but in a chorus of slander
You are valued even more.
The worm finds the most delicate flowers,
And you are innocent, like spring itself.

You escaped the ambush of youthful days
Or the attacker was defeated himself,
But with its purity and truth
You will not close the mouth of slanderers.

Without this light shadow on the forehead
You alone would reign on earth!

You mourn when the poet dies
As long as the ringing of the nearest church
Will not announce that this low light
I traded worms for the lower world.

And if you reread my sonnet,
You do not regret about the hand that has cooled down.
I don't want to blur the delicate color
Eyes beloved by their memory.

I don't want these lines to echo
It reminded me again and again.
Let them freeze at the same time
My breath and your love!..

I don't want my longing
You betrayed yourself to the people's rumors.

So that the light cannot force you
Tell me what you loved in me -
Forget me when in my declining years
Or before that the grave will take me.

So little good you will find
Sorting through all my merits,
What involuntarily, speaking of a friend,
Come up with a saving lie.

So as not to tarnish true love
Some kind of false memory
Erase me quickly from memory, -

Or twice I have to answer:
For being so insignificant in life
And then what made you lie!

That season you see in me
When one or two crimson leaves
From the cold trembles in the sky -
In the choir stalls, where the cheerful whistle has ceased.

In me you see that evening hour,
When the sunset faded in the west
And the dome of the sky, taken from us,
Let's like death - embraced by dusk.

In me you see the brilliance of that fire,
Which goes out in the ashes of past days,
And what life was for me
It becomes my grave.

You see everything. But the end is near
Closer our hearts are connected!

When they put me under arrest
Without ransom, pledge and delay,
Not a block of stone, not a grave cross -
These lines will be my memorial.

You will find again and again in my verse
Everything in me belonged to you.
Let the earth get my ashes, -
You, having lost me, will lose little.

With you will be the best in me.
And death will take from life fleetingly
Sediment left at the bottom
What a tramp could steal,

She - shards of a broken bucket,
You - my wine, my soul.

You satisfy my hungry eyes
Like the earth is refreshing moisture.
I have an endless argument with you
Like a miser with his treasury.

Now he is happy, then he rushes about in a dream,
Afraid of the steps that sound behind the wall,
He wants to be alone with the casket,
That is glad to flash a sparkling treasury.

So I, having tasted bliss at the feast,
Tormented by thirst in anticipation of a look.
I live by what I take from you
My hope, torment and reward.

In the weary alternation of days
Either I am richer than everyone, then I am poorer than everyone.

Alas, my verse does not shine with novelty,
A variety of unexpected changes.
Should I look for another path,
New tricks, strange combinations?

I repeat the same thing again
I reappear in old clothes.
And it seems to call by name
Me in poetry, any word can.

All this is because again and again
I solve one of my problems:

I write about you, my love,
And I spend the same heart, the same strength.

All the same sun walks over me,
But it does not shine with novelty!

The mirror will show your gray hairs,
Hours - the loss of golden minutes.
The line will fall on the white page -
And your thought will be seen and read.

By the lines of wrinkles in the truthful glass
We all keep track of our losses.
And in the rustle of hours unhurried
Stealthily time flows to eternity.

Seal with fluent words
All that the memory cannot hold.
Your children, long forgotten by you,
Someday you will meet again.

How often are these found lines
There are invaluable lessons for us.

I called you my muse
So often that now vying with each other
Poets, adopting my idea,
They decorated their poems with you.

Eyes that taught the dumb to sing
Made ignorance fly
Fine art was given wings,
Grace - greatness seal.

And yet I am proud of my offering,
Even though I don't have wings like that.
You serve as an ornament to the poems of others,
My poems are born by you.

Poetry is in you. simple feelings
You know how to elevate to art.

When alone I found the origins
Poetry in you, my verse shone.
But how now my lines have faded
And the voice of the weak muse fell silent!

I am aware of my verses impotence.
But all that can be said about you
The poet finds abundance in yours,
To give you again.

He praises virtue, that's the word
Stealing from your behavior
He sings of beauty, but again
Brings a gift by robbing a deity.

The one who pays should not thank
In full for everything that the poet spends.

But since the free ocean is wide
And with a mighty ship on a par
Shakes a modest little shuttle, -
I dared to appear on the wave.

Only with your help in the midst of stormy waters
I can hold on, I'm not going to the bottom.
And he swims in the radiance of sails,
Bottomless disturbing depth.

I don't know what awaits me on the way
But I'm not afraid to find death in love.

Will you have to bury me
Or I don’t know you, my dear friend.
But let the thread of your fate be interrupted,
Your image will not disappear beyond the grave.

You will save both life and beauty,
And nothing will be saved from me.
In the cemetery I will find peace,
And your shelter is an open tomb.

Your monument is my enthusiastic verse.
Who is not yet born, will hear it.
And the world will repeat the tale of your days,
When all those who are now breathing die.

You will live, leaving the ashes of the earth,
Where the breath lives - on the lips!

You are not engaged to my muse,
And often your court is lenient,
When you poets of our days
Eloquently dedicate work.

Your mind is as fine as your features
Much thinner than all my praises.
And involuntarily you are looking for lines
Newer than the ones I wrote to you.

I'm ready to give in to my opponents.
But after rhetorical attempts
The truth of these words will become clearer,
What a talking friend writes.

Bloodless paint is needed bright,
Your blood is already red.

I thought that your beauty
There is no need for fake paints.
I thought: you are more beautiful and sweeter
All that a poet can say.

That's why the seal of silence
On my modest lips lay down, -
To prove your greatness
Beauty could be without adornments.

But you consider it a bold sin
My muse in love is dumb.
Meanwhile others in a feeble verse
Immortal beauty is buried.

What shines in your eyes
Your singers will not express together.

Who knows those words that mean more
True words that you are only you?
Who hides in his treasury
An example of such beauty to you?

How poor is the verse that did not add
Virtues to the culprit of praise.
But only he glorified himself in poetry,
Who just called you.

Retelling what nature said,
He creates a true portrait of you,
Who has countless years
The world will marvel rapturously.

My mute muse is so modest.
Meanwhile, the poets are the best around
Letters are drawn to your glory
Eloquent golden pen.

My goddess is quieter than all goddesses.
And I, like an illiterate deacon,
I can only say "amen!"
At the end of solemnly sounding lines.

I say: "Of course!", "It is!",
When poets say a verse
Honoring your merits, -
But how many Feelings are in my thoughts!

Appreciate singers for big words,
Me - for quiet thoughts, without words.

Is it his verse - the mighty noise of the sails,
Rushing in pursuit of you -
All plans buried in me,
Making the womb into a grave urn?

Is it his hand to write
Taught some spirit, devoid of body,
He puts a seal on timid lips,
Having reached the limit of your skill?

Oh no, neither he nor the friendly spirit -
His nightly adviser is disembodied -
So couldn't stun my ear
And fear to strike my gift of words.

But if you don't get off his lips, -
My verse, like a house, stands open and empty.

Goodbye! I dare not stop you.
I highly value your love.
I can't afford what I own
And I humbly give a pledge.

I use love as a gift.
She was not bought with merit.
And that means voluntary
You are free to break at will.

You gave, I don’t know the price
Or not knowing, maybe me.
And a reward not rightfully taken
I have kept to this day.

I was king only in a dream.
I was deprived of the throne by awakening.

When you want, cool to me,
Give me ridicule and contempt,
I will stay by your side
And I will not discredit your honor with a shadow.

Knowing very well every vice,
I can tell a story
That I will forever remove the reproach from you,
I will justify a stained conscience.

And I will be grateful to fate:
Let me fail in the fight
But I bring you the honor of victory
And twice I get everything I spend.

Ready. I'm a victim of being wrong
So that you turn out to be right.

Tell me you found the line in me
Which caused your betrayal.
Well, judge me for my lameness -
And I will walk with my knee bent.

You won't find such hurtful words
To justify the sudden chill,
How do I find. I'm ready to be different
To give you the right to alienate.

I will fight with myself:
He is hostile to me who is not nice to you!

If you fall out of love - so now,
Now that the whole world is at odds with me.
Be the bitterest of my losses
But not the last straw of grief!

And if grief is given to me to overcome,
Don't ambush.
Let the stormy night not be resolved
Rainy morning - morning without consolation.

Leave me, but not at the last moment
When from small troubles I will weaken.
Leave now, so that I can immediately comprehend
That this grief is more painful than all adversities,

That there are no adversities, but there is one trouble -
Lose your love forever.

Who boasts of his kinship with the nobility,
Who by force, who by a brilliant galloon,
Some with a wallet, some with buckles on a dress,
Who is a falcon, dog, horse.

People have different tastes
But everyone has only one mile.
And I have a special happiness -
It contains everything else.

Your love, my friend, is more precious than treasure,
More honorable than the crowns of kings
More elegant than a rich outfit,
Falcon hunting is more fun.

You can take everything that I own
And at this moment I will immediately become poor.

You cannot escape me.
You will be mine until the last days.
My life path is connected with love,
And it must end with her.

Why should I be afraid of the worst troubles,
When does a smaller one threaten me with death?
And I have no addiction
From your whims or insults.

I'm not afraid of your betrayal.
Your betrayal is a merciless knife.
Oh, how blessed is my sad lot:
I was yours and you will kill me.

But there is no happiness in the world without a spot.
Who's to tell me that you're right now?

Well, I will live, accepting as a condition,
That you are true. Though you have become different
But the shadow of love seems like love to us.
Not with your heart - so be with me with your eyes.

Your gaze does not speak of change.
He harbors neither boredom nor enmity.
There are faces on which crimes
Draw indelible marks.

But, apparently, it is so pleasing to higher powers:
Let your beautiful lips lie
But in this look, tender and sweet,
The purity still shines.

The apple from the tree was beautiful
Eve thwarted Adam.

Who, owning evil, will not cause evil,
Without using the full power of this power,
Who moves others, but like granite,
Unshakable and not subject to passion, -

Heaven grants grace to him,
The earth brings dear gifts.
He was given greatness,
And others are called to honor greatness.

Summer cherishes its best flower,
Though he himself blooms and withers.
But if vice found shelter in it,
Any weed will be worthy of it.

Thistle is sweeter and sweeter to us
Corrupted roses, poisoned lilies.

You know how to decorate your shame.
But, like an invisible worm in the garden
He draws a disastrous pattern on roses, -
So your vice stains you.

Rumor talks about your deeds,
Guesses generously adding to them.
But praise becomes blasphemy.
Vice is justified by your name!

In what a magnificent palace
You give shelter to low temptations!
Under the beautiful mask on the face,
In a magnificent outfit they will not be recognized.

But beauty cannot be saved in vices.
Rusting, sharpness loses the sword.

Who condemns your careless disposition,
Who is captivated by your young success.
But, having justified the misdeeds with the charm,
You turn sin into virtue.

Fake stone in the ring of kings
Considered a precious diamond
So are the vices of your youth
The benefits seem different.

How many sheep would a wolf steal
Putting on the lamb's delicate fleece.
How many hearts can you captivate
All that is given to you by your destiny.

Stop - I love you so much
That I am all yours and share your honor.

I thought it was winter
When I didn't see you, my friend.
What a frost was, what darkness,
What an empty December reigned around!

During this time the summer has passed
And gave way to autumn rights.
And autumn came, stepping heavily, -
A widow left behind.

It seemed to me that all the fruits of the earth
From birth, an orphan's lot awaits.
There is no summer in the world if you are far away.
Where you are not, and the bird does not sing.

And where a timid, pitiful whistle is heard,
In anticipation of winter, the leaf turns pale.

We were separated by blooming, stormy April.
He revived everything with his wind.
In the night the heavy star of Saturn
Laughing and dancing with him.

But the hubbub of birds and smells and colors
Countless colors didn't help
The birth of my spring fairy tale.
I did not tear the motley first-born of the earth.

Opened bowls of snow lilies,
Purple roses fragrant first color,
Reminding me, they didn't replace me
Lanit and lips, which have no equal.

There was winter in me, and spring shine
It seemed to me a shadow of a pretty shadow.

Violet early I reproached:
The evil one steals his sweet smell
From your mouth and every petal
He steals his velvet from you.

Lilies have the whiteness of your hand,
Your dark curl is in marjoram buds,
A white rose has the color of your cheek,
At the red rose - your fire is ruddy.

At the third rose - white, like snow,
And red as the dawn - your breath.
But the impudent thief did not escape retribution:
The worm eats him as a punishment.

What flowers are not in the spring garden!
And everyone steals your scent or color.

Where is the muse? That her lips are silent
About who inspired her flight?
Ile, busy with a cheap song,
Does she create glory for the insignificant?

Sing, vain muse, in order
Who can appreciate your game
Who gives both brilliance and skill,
And nobility to your pen.

Look at his beautiful features
And if you find a wrinkle in them,
Expose the killer of beauty
Brand the robbery with an angry stanza.

Before it's too late, time is faster
Capture immortal features!

O windy muse, why,
Rejecting the truth in the splendor of beauty,
You don't draw my friend
By whose valor are you also glorified?

But maybe you'll tell me back
That beauty does not need to be decorated,
That the truth does not need to be given color
And the best doesn't need to be improved.

Yes, perfection does not need praise,
But you do not regret words or colors,
So that beauty survives in glory
His gold-covered mausoleum.

Untouched - such as today,
Save the beautiful image of the world!

I love, but I rarely talk about it,
I love more tenderly, - but not for many eyes.
Trades in the feeling of the one in front of the light
He exposes his whole soul.

I met you with a song, like hello,
When love was new to us
So the nightingale rumbles at the midnight hour
In the spring, but forgets the flute in the summer.

The night will not lose its charm,
When his outpourings are silenced.
But music, sounding from all branches,
Having become ordinary, it loses its charm.

And I fell silent like a nightingale:
I sang mine and don't sing anymore.

The poor muse has no more colors,
And what glory was revealed to her!
But, apparently, my naked story is better
Without the addition of my praise.

That's why I stopped writing.
But take a look yourself in the mirror glass
And make sure that above all praise
Glass displayed forehead.

All that. what this surface reflected,
The palette or the cutter will not convey.
Why do we, trying to convey,
So perfect to mess up the pattern?

And we do not want to argue in vain
With nature or your mirror.

You don't change over the years.
The same you were when you first
I met you. Three winters are gray
Three magnificent years have powdered the trail.

Three gentle springs have changed color
On juicy fruit and fiery leaves,
And three times the forest was undressed in autumn ...
And the elements do not rule over you.

On the dial, showing us the hour,
Leaving the figure, the golden arrow
Slightly moves invisible to the eye,
So I don’t notice years on you.

And if the sunset is necessary, -
He was before your birth!

Don't call me a pagan
Do not call the deity an idol.
I sing hymns full of love
Him, about him and only for him.

His love is softer every day
And dedicating a verse to constancy,
I can't help but talk about him
Not knowing the themes and intentions of others.

"Beautiful, faithful, kind" - these are the words,
Which I say in many ways.
They have three definitions of the deity,
But how many combinations of these words!

Goodness, beauty and fidelity lived apart,
But it's all in you merged.

When I read in the scroll of dead years
About fiery lips, long silent,
About the beauty that composes the couplet
To the glory of ladies and beautiful knights,

Traits kept for centuries -
Eyes, smile, hair and eyebrows -
They tell me that only in the ancient word
You could totally reflect.

In any line to your beautiful lady
The poet dreamed of predicting you
But he could not convey all of you,
Staring into the distance with loving eyes.

Neither my own fear, nor a prophetic look
The whole universe, looking diligently into the distance,
They don't know how long I've been given
A love whose death seemed inevitable.

Its eclipse the mortal moon
Survived in spite of the lying prophets.
Hope is back on the throne
And a long peace promises the flowering of olives.

Separation death does not threaten us.
Let me die, but I will rise in verse.
Blind death threatens only the tribes,
Not yet enlightened, wordless.

In my poems and you will survive
Crowns of tyrants and coats of arms of nobles.

What can the brain convey to paper,
To add something new to your praises?
What should I remember, what should I tell
To glorify your virtues?

There is nothing, my friend. But your hello
Like an old prayer - word for word -
I repeat. There is no novelty in it
But it sounds solemn and new.

Immortal love, reborn,
We inevitably feel different.
Wrinkles do not know eternal love
And old age makes its servant.

And there is her birth, where the rumor
And the time they say: love is dead.

Don't call me an unfaithful friend.
How could I change or change?
My soul, the soul of my love
In your chest, like my pledge, is stored.

You are my shelter, given by fate.
I left and came back
As he was, and brought with him
Living water that washes away stains.

Let my sins burn my blood
But I did not reach the last edge,
So that from wanderings not to return again
To you, the source of all blessings.

What is this spacious light without you?
You are alone in it. There is no other happiness.

Yes, it's true, wherever I've been
Before whom the jester did not make a show,
How cheaply wealth sold
And offended love with new love!

Yes, it's true: the truth is not point-blank
I looked into the eyes, but somewhere by,
But youth again found my cursory glance,
Wandering, he recognized you as beloved.

It's all over and I won't be again
Look for that which exacerbates passions,
Love new test love.
You are a deity, and I am all in your power.

Find me shelter near heaven
On that pure, loving breast.

Oh, how right you are, scolding my fate,
The culprit of my evil deeds,
Goddess who condemned me
Depend on public alms.

The dyer cannot hide the craft.
So damn busy on me
An indelible seal lay down.
Oh, help me wash away my curse!

I agree to swallow without grumbling
Medicinal bitter roots
I will not consider bitterness as bitter,
Consider wrong measure of correction.

But with your pity, oh dear friend,
You are the best cure for my ailment!

My Friend, your love and kindness
Filled the deep trail of curse
Which was burned by evil slander
On my forehead with a red-hot seal.

Only your praise and your reproach
My joy will also be sorrow.
For all others I have died from now on
And feelings shackled with invisible steel.

I threw fear into such an abyss,
That I'm not afraid of vipers woven together
And the rumble barely reaches me
Sly slander and false flattery.

I hear my friend's heart
And everything around is silent and dead.

From the day of separation - an eye in my soul,
And the one by which I find the way,
Can't see visible things
Even though I'm still looking at everything.

Neither heart nor consciousness a cursory glance
Cannot give an account of what he saw.
He is not happy with grass, flowers and birds,
And nothing lives in it for long.

Beautiful and ugly object
Turns the gaze into your likeness:
Dove and crow, darkness and light,
Blue sea and mountain peaks.

Full of you and deprived of you
My faithful gaze sees the wrong dream.

Am I, having accepted the crown of love,
Like all monarchs, intoxicated with flattery?
One of two things: my eye is a sly flatterer.
Ile magic you he taught.

Of monsters and formless things
He creates bright cherubim.
Everything that enters the circle of its rays,
It makes it look like your face.

Rather, the first guess: flattery.
All that I love is known to the eye,
And he knows how to present a cup,
To please the king.

Let it be poison - my eye will atone for sin:
He tastes the poison first!

Oh how I lied once when I said:

"My love cannot be stronger."
I did not know, with a full flame of grief,
That I know how to love even more tenderly.

Accidents foreseeing a million
Invading every moment
Breaking the immutable law
Wavering and oaths and aspirations,

Not believing in changeable fate,
But only an hour that has not yet lived,
I said: "My love for you
So big that there can be no more!"

Love is a child. I was wrong about her
Calling the child an adult woman.

Interfere with the union of two hearts
I don't intend to. Can treason
Love boundless put an end to?
Love knows no loss and decay.

Love is a beacon raised above the storm,
Not fading in darkness and fog.
Love is the star that sailor
Defines a place in the ocean.

Love is not a pathetic doll in your hands
By the time that erases the roses
On fiery lips and cheeks,
And she is not afraid of time threats.

And if I'm wrong and my verse lies,
Then there is no love - and there are no my poems!

Tell me that I neglected the payment
For all the good that I owe you,
That I forgot your cherished threshold,
With which I am connected with all ties,

That I did not know the value of your watch,
Ruthlessly giving them to strangers,
That allowed unknown sails
Carry yourself from my beloved land.

All the crimes of my liberty
You put my love next to you
Submit to the strict judgment of your eyes,
But do not execute me with a death look.

It's my fault. But all my fault
Show how true your love is.

For appetite spicy condiments
We call bitter taste in the mouth.
We drink bitterness to avoid poison,
Deliberately arousing stupidity.

So, spoiled by your love,
I found joy in bitter thoughts
And he himself came up with ill health
Still in the prime of life and strength.

From this love treachery
And the salvation of fictitious troubles
I got sick in earnest and medicine
He swallowed the bitterest to his own detriment.

But I realized: drugs are deadly poison
Those who are sick with boundless love.

What drink from the bitter tears of the Sirens
Poisoned I, what tincture of hell?
Now I am afraid, now I am taken prisoner by hope,
I am close to wealth and I am losing my treasure.

What have I sinned in my happy hour,
When in bliss did I reach the zenith?
What ailment shook me all
So the eyes have left their orbits?

Oh, the beneficent power of evil!
All the best from grief becomes prettier,
And the love that is burned to the ground
Even more magnificent blooms and turns green.

So after all the countless losses
Many times I am richer.

That my friend was cruel to me,
Good for me. Having experienced sadness
I must bend under my guilt
If this heart is a heart, not steel.

And if I shook my friend with resentment,
Like he is me, he is tormented by hell,
And I can't have leisure
Recall the grievances of the past poison.

Let that night of sadness and languor
Reminds me how I felt
So that I bring a friend for healing,
As he then, remorse balm.

I forgave everything that I once experienced,
And forgive me - mutual retribution!

It is better to be a sinner than to be known as a sinner.
A slander is more terrible than a denunciation.
And joy perishes, if it is judged
It should not be ours, but someone else's opinion.

How can the look of someone else's vicious eyes
Spare the game of hot blood in me?
Let me be a sinner, but not more sinful than you,
My spies, masters of slander.

I am me and you are my sins
Equal your example.
But maybe I'm straight, while the judge
Wrong in the hands of a crooked measure,

And he sees in any of the neighbors a lie,
Because the neighbor looks like him!

I don't need your tables. In the brain
Rather than on parchment and wax, -
I will keep your image forever,
And I don't need memorial plaques.

You will live until those distant days
When the living, yielding to decay,
Give away a piece of your memory
Almighty and eternal oblivion.

It would not be so long, the wax was preserved
Your tables - your gift in vain.
No, loving heart, sensitive brain
They will preserve your beautiful face more fully.

Who should keep the memory of love,
That memory can change!

Do not brag, time, power over me.
Those pyramids that were built
You again, do not shine with novelty.
They are a rehash of antiquity.

Our age is short. We are no wonder
Seduce with turned junk.
We believe that we were born
All that we learn from our ancestors.

The price to you with your archive is worthless.
There is no surprise in me
Before what is and was. This lie
You weave in a hurry of fussy years.

And if I've been faithful so far,
I won't change for you!

Oh, be my love a child of luck
Daughter of time, born without rights -
Fate could appoint a place for her
In your wreath or in a pile of weeds.

But no, my love was not created by chance.
Blind power does not promise her fate
To be a miserable slave of well-being
And fall a miserable victim of indignation.

She is not afraid of tricks and threats
Those who hire happiness for an hour.
The beam does not care for her, thunderstorms do not destroy her.
She goes her own way.

And to this you, temporary worker, witness,
Whose life is vice and death is virtue.

What if I deserved the right
Hold the crown over the throne of the lord
Or laid the stone of immortality,
No more reliable than a ruin?

Who chases the outer fuss,
Loses everything, not calculating retribution,
And often forgets the simple taste;

Spoiled by intricate cooking.
No, only your gifts I will wait.
And you take my bread, simple and meager.
It is given to you as a blessing
As a sign of selfless mutual sacrifice.

Away, tempter! The harder it is for the soul
The less you rule over her!

My winged boy who bears the burden
Hours that count the time for us,
You grow from loss, confirming
That we feed love, withering.

Nature, the destroyer mother,
Your move stubbornly reverses.
She keeps you for an idle joke,
To give birth to kill minutes.

But beware of your cruel mistress:
Insidious spares you until the deadline.
When this time is up,
He'll show you the bill and give you a quote.

Black was not considered beautiful,
When beauty was valued in the world.
But, apparently, the white light has changed, -
Beautiful fake denigrated.

Since all natural colors
Skillfully replaces the color borrowed,
Beauty has lost its last rights,
She is reputed to be homeless and homeless.

That's why both hair and eyes
My beloved is blacker than the night, -
As if wearing a mourning dress
For those who defame beauty with paint.

But this is how the black veil suits them,
That blackness has become beauty.

As soon as you, my music,
Take up music, disturbing the system
Frets and strings with skillful play,
I am tormented by jealous envy.

It's a shame to me that the caresses of gentle hands
You give to the dancing frets,
Tearing off a brief, fleeting sound, -
And not my languishing lips.

I would like to become the keys,
So that only your fingers are light
Walked on me, making me tremble,
When you touch the strings in oblivion.

But if happiness fell on a string,
Give your hands to her, and your lips to me!

The costs of the spirit and shame of waste -
Here is sweetness in action. It
Ruthlessly, cunningly, ruthlessly,
Cruel, rude, full of rage.

Satisfied - it attracts contempt,
He spares no effort in pursuit.
And he is deprived of rest and oblivion,
Who accidentally swallowed the bait.

Crazy, in discord with itself,
It owns or owns it.
In hope - joy, in trial - sorrow,
And in the past - a dream that melted like smoke.

All this is so. But will the sinner escape
Heavenly gates leading to hell?

Her eyes don't look like stars
You can’t call the mouth corals,
Not snow-white shoulders open skin,
And a strand twists like a black wire.

With a damask rose, scarlet or white,
You can not compare the shade of these cheeks.
And the body smells like the body smells,
Not like a violet delicate petal.

You won't find perfect lines in it
Special light on the forehead.
I don't know how goddesses walk
But the darling walks the earth.

And yet she will hardly yield to those
Who was slandered in lush comparisons.

You are full of whims and love power,
Like all arrogant beauties.
You know that my blind passion
He considers you a precious gift.

Let them say that your swarthy appearance
Not worth the tears of love languor, -
I do not dare to enter into an argument with rumor,
But I argue with her in my imagination.

To assure yourself to the end
And prove the absurdity of these fables,
I swear to tears that the dark complexion
And the black color of your hair is beautiful.

The trouble is not that you have a swarthy face, -
You are not black, your deeds are black!

I love your eyes. They me
Forgotten, regret unfeignedly.
Burying a rejected friend
They, like mourning, wear their color black.

Believe that the sun's shine is not the way it goes
To the face of the gray-haired early east,
And the star that leads us to the evening -
Transparent skies western eye -

Not so radiant and not so bright
Like this look, beautiful and farewell.
Ah, if you would clothe your heart
In the same mourning, soft and sad, -

I would think that beauty itself
Black as night, and brighter than light - darkness!

Cursed be the soul that tormented
Me and a friend with a whim of change.
It seemed to you not enough to torment me, -
My best friend is captured in the same captivity

Fierce, me with an unkind eye
You forever deprived of three hearts:
Losing my will, I lost at once
You, myself and a friend finally.

But save a friend from a slave share
And order me to guard him.
I will be the guardian, being in captivity,
And I'll give my heart for him.

The prayer is in vain. You are my dungeon
And all mine must languish with me.

So, he's yours. Now my destiny
It will turn out to be a mortgaged name,
So that only he is my second "I" -
Still gave me comfort.

But he does not want and you do not want.
You won't give it up for profit.
And he is from infinite kindness
Ready to be pledged to you.

He is my surety and your debtor.
You are the power of your cruel beauty
Chasing him like a pawnbroker
And you threaten me with a lonely fate.

He pledged his freedom
But I could not return my freedom!

No wonder the name given to me means
"Wish". We torment with desire,
I beg you: take me in addition
To all your other desires.

Are you, whose will is so boundless,
Can't find a home for mine?
And if there is a gentle response to desires,
Can't they find my answer?

As in a full-flowing, free ocean
Wanderers-rains find shelter, -
Among your countless desires
And find a place for me.

Unkind "no" don't hurt me.
Desires all in your will merge.

Your soul resists dating.
But you tell her my name.
They called me "will" or "desire"
And the will has a shelter in every soul.

She will fill your soul
Oneself and many wills.
And in those cases where the account is kept generously,
The number "one" is nothing more than zero.

Let me be nothing in the myriad,
But for you I will remain alone.
For all others, I will be invisible,
But let me be loved by you.

You love my nickname first,
Then you will love me. I am desire!

----
Sonnets 135 and 136 are built on a play on words. Abbreviated poet's name
"Will" (from "William" - "William") is spelled and sounds the same as the word
meaning will or desire. (Author's note.)

Love is blind and deprives us of eyes.
I don't see what I see clearly.
I saw beauty but every time
I could not understand what was bad, what was beautiful.

And if the looks of the heart turned
And anchored in such waters,
Where many ships pass, -
Why don't you give him freedom?

Like a driveway to my heart
Could it seem like a happy estate?
But everything that I saw, denied my gaze,
Tinting the false face with truth.

Darkness replaced the true light,
And lies seized me like a plague.

When you swear to me that you are all
Serve worthy of the truth as a model,
I believe even though I see you lie
Imagining me as a blind youth.

flattered that I can still
To seem young in spite of the truth,
I lie to myself in my vanity,
And we are both far from the truth.

Won't you tell me you lied to me again
And it makes no sense for me to admit my age.
Love holds on to imaginary trust,
And old age, having fallen in love, is ashamed of years.

I lie to you, you lie unwittingly to me,
And we seem to be quite happy!

Don't force me to justify
Your injustice and deceit.
It's better to conquer force by force,
But do not hurt me with cunning.

Love another, but in the minutes of meetings
Don't take your eyelashes away from me.
Why cheat? Your gaze is a smashing sword
And there is no armor on the loving chest.

You yourself know the power of your eyes,
And, perhaps, looking away,
You are preparing to kill others,
Sparing me out of mercy.

Oh, have no mercy! Let your direct look
If he kills me, I will be glad to die.

Be as smart as evil. Don't open
The clamped lips of my heartache.
Not that suffering, gushing over the edge,
They will speak suddenly.

Even though you don't love me, lie
Me with fake, imaginary love.
Who lives a few days
Waiting for doctors hope for health.

Contempt you drive me crazy
And force the silence to be broken.
And the wicked light of any lie,
Any crazy nonsense is ready to eavesdrop.

To avoid stigma,
Curve your soul, but be straight in appearance!

My eyes are not in love with you, -
They see your vices clearly.
And the heart is none of your fault
He does not see and does not agree with his eyes.

And yet, external feelings are not given -
Not all five, not each separately -
Assure the heart of a poor one,
That this slavery is fatal to him.

In my misfortune I am glad alone,
That you are my sin and you are my eternal hell.

Love is my sin, and your anger is just.
You do not forgive my vice.
But, comparing our crimes,
You will not throw a reproach to my love.

Or you will understand that it is not your mouth
They have the right to expose me.
Defiled long ago their beauty
Treason, lies, an evil oath.

Is my love worse than yours?
Let me love you, and you - another,
But you have pity on me in misfortune,
So that the world does not judge you severely.

And if pity sleeps in your chest,
Then you yourself do not expect pity!

Often in order to catch
Crazy chicken or rooster
The mother lowers the child to the ground,
To his pleas and complaints is deaf,

And vainly pursues the fugitive,
Who, with his neck stretched forward
And trembling before her face,
The hostess does not give a rest.

So you left me my friend
Chasing what is running away.
I, like a child, look for you around,
I call you, tormented day and night.

Hurry catch a winged dream
And return to abandoned love.

For joy and sadness, by the will of fate,
Two friends, two loves own me:

Light-haired man, light-eyed
And a woman in whose eyes the darkness of the night.

To cast me into hell,
The demon seeks to seduce the angel,
Captivate him with your sinful beauty
And turn into the devil with temptation.

I don't know, watching them fight
Who will win, but I do not expect good.
My friends are friends with each other
And I'm afraid that my angel is in hell.

But is he there - I'll know about it,
When he is cast out from there.

I hate - these are the words
What from her sweet lips the other day
Broke in anger. But hardly
She noticed my fear, -

How to hold the tongue
Which me so far
He whispered caress, then reproach,
Not a harsh sentence.

"I hate," - subdued,
The mouth spoke, and the look
Already changed to mercy anger,
And the night rushed from heaven to hell.

My soul, the core of the sinful earth,
Surrendering to the rebellious forces,
You are languishing in spiritual need
And you spend money on painting the outer walls.

A short-lived guest, why such funds
Spending on your rented house
To give to blind worms as an inheritance
Labored property?

Grow, soul, and be sated to your heart's content,
Dig up your treasure at the expense of running days
And, acquiring the best share,
Live richer, outwardly more victorious.

Rule over death in fleeting life,
And death will die, and you will live forever.

Love is a sickness. My soul is sick
An agonizing, unquenchable thirst.
She demands the same poison
Who poisoned her once.

My mind-doctor healed my love.
She rejected herbs and roots,
And the poor doctor was exhausted
And he left us, losing his patience.

From now on, my illness is incurable.
The soul finds no peace in anything.
Abandoned by my mind
And feelings and words roam at will.

And for a long time to me, devoid of mind,
Hell seemed like heaven, and darkness seemed to be light!

Oh, how my love has changed my eye!
At odds with reality vision.
Or is my mind so lost
What denies visible phenomena?

If it's good that the eyes like it,
How can the world disagree with me?
And if not, I must admit myself,
That the gaze of love is false and unclear.

Who is right: the whole world or my loving gaze?
But those who love are prevented from watching by tears.
Sometimes the sun goes blind until
Until the whole sky is washed by thunderstorms.

Love is cunning - it needs streams of tears,
To hide your sins from your eyes!

You say that there is no love in me.
But am I, waging war with you,
Not on your fighting side
And I don't give up my weapons without a fight?

Did I ally with your enemy
Do I love those you hate?
And don't I blame myself around,
When will you offend me in vain?

What a merit I am proud of,
To consider humiliation a disgrace?
Your sin is dearer to me than virtue,
My sentence is the movement of your eyelashes.

In your enmity, one thing is clear to me:
You love the sighted - I've been blind for a long time.

Where do you get so much power from?
To rule in powerlessness over me?
I instill lies in my own eyes,
I swear to them that the light of day did not shine.

So infinite is the charm of evil,
Confidence and power of sinful forces,
That I, forgiving black deeds,
Your sin, as a virtue, fell in love.

Everything that would feed enmity in another,
Feeds the tenderness in my chest.
I love what everyone curses around,
But don't judge me with everyone.

He deserves special love
Who gives his unworthy soul.

Youth does not know the conscience of reproaches,
Like love, though conscience is the daughter of love.
And you do not expose my vices
Or call yourself to account.

Betrayed by you, I myself completely
Passions simple and rude betray.
My spirit slyly seduces the body,
And the flesh celebrates its victory.

At your name she seeks
Indicate the goal of your desires,
He rises like a slave before his queen,
To fall at her feet again.

Who knew in love, ups and downs,
That depth of conscience is familiar.

I know that my love is sinful
But you are guilty of double betrayal,
Forgetting the vow of marriage and again
Breaking the oath of allegiance to love.

But do I have the right
To accuse you of double treason?
Frankly, I myself did not two,
And as many as twenty perjuries.

I swore in your kindness more than once,
In your love and deep loyalty.
I blinded the pupils of biased eyes,
In order not to see your vice.

I swore: you are truthful and pure, -
And he defiled his lips with black lies.

God Cupid dozed in the silence of the forest,
And the young nymph at Cupid's
I took a burning tar torch
And lowered it into a cold stream.

The fire went out, and there is water in the stream
Warmed up, boiled, boiled.
And here the sick converge there
Heal the infirm body with bathing.

Meanwhile, the evil god of love
Got fire from my girlfriend's eyes
And set my heart on fire for experience.
Oh, how ailments have tormented me ever since!

But not a stream can heal them,
And the same poison is the fire of her eyes.

The god of love lay down under the tree,
Throwing his burning torch to the ground.
Seeing that the insidious god fell asleep,
The nymphs decided to run out of the thicket.

One of them approached the fire
Who did a lot of troubles to the virgins,
And dipped the brand into the water,
Disarming the slumbering god.

The stream water became hot.
She cured many ailments.
And I went to bathe in that stream
To heal from the love of a friend.

Love heated the water - but the water
Love has never cooled.

Greetings to new members and readers of our community!
Come in, settle down, feel at home - write, comment, discuss. Hope it will be fun. :)

So, with this post, I open the discussion of Shakespeare's sonnets. In general, I wanted to write about the film adaptations of Twelfth Night, but somehow it turned out that my hands reached the sonnets faster.
I really hope that the topic will interest you, but even if not, I will still write.
With your permission, I will not now go into the history of the sonnets themselves. In short, I think everyone knows - written at the end of the 16th century, published in 1609, there are 154 sonnets in total, part (large) is dedicated to an unknown male friend, part - to an equally unknown "dark lady". The story ended, apparently, badly: friend and lover found each other, and the aging poet was left out of business. I think we will discuss the history of the creation of sonnets and their possible addressees many times.
In the meantime, I would like to discuss their translations into Russian. Translations exist in abundance - in addition to the well-known Marshak, who just did not translate them, starting from the middle of the 19th century and up to the present day.
There is a proposal to take one sonnet at a time and consider it together with all the translations - as well as with feeling, with sense, with arrangement. Not too often, of course, lest the sonnets bore us. :) Such paradoxical effects would not be desirable.

Well, let's start - surprise, surprise! - from sonnet number one.

And, I also want to immediately warn you: I have not been a professional literary critic for a long time, and I have never been a literary critic at all, so I write simply as a reader - subjectively and biased. What I'm warning you about.

Sonnet #1

Original
From fairest creatures we desire to increase,
That thereby beauty "s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decay,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed "st thy light" s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance of lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak "st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

interlinear
From the most beautiful creatures we desire offspring,
so that the rose of beauty never dies,
but when the more mature (rose) eventually dies,
her tender heir carried her memory.
But you, betrothed with clear eyes of your own,
feed your bright flame with the fuel of your essence,
creating hunger where there is abundance,
his own enemy, too cruel to his sweet person!
You who are now the fresh ornament of the world
and the only herald of colorful spring,
in your own bud you bury your content
and, gentle miser, you squander (yourself) in avarice.
Have pity on the world, otherwise become a glutton,
who ate what is due to the world along with the grave.

1. Translation by N. Gerbel

Everyone wants offspring from beautiful beings,
So that beauty blooms in the world - does not die:
Let the mature beauty fade from time -
Her sprouts will keep our memory of her.
But you, whose proud gaze no one attracts,
And the bright flame feeds its own ardor,
There is a famine sowing, where there should be an abundance -
You are your own worst enemy, ready to destroy everything.
You, the best of people, nature's adornment,
And the herald of a young captivating spring,
Closed, you bury happiness dreams in yourself
And you sow around yourself one desolation.
Have pity on the world, don't let it fall
And, like the earth, do not devour its gifts.

What do we see here?
Well, firstly, the translator's free treatment with meter and rhyme.
Shakespeare's sonnets are written in the good old iambic pentameter, the rhyme is: abab cdcd efef gg. Here the iambic suddenly becomes six-footed, and the rhyme scheme becomes more complicated: abba ccdd efef gg. By the way, according to the rhyme scheme, this is practically a Onegin stanza (only the first and third quatrains have changed places)! I wonder if it was fashionable in the 19th century? Are there more examples? Hm.
In any case, if then a change in the size and rhyming scheme was considered acceptable, in our enlightened age it is already perceived as “ay-yay-yay, not comme il faut.”
In terms of content, everything is quite accurate (although with unnecessary - relative to Shakespeare himself - trinkets, but then the time was like that) up to the twelfth line. For me, this is the most memorable image from the entire poem (not, frankly, the most impressive of Shakespeare's sonnets): here is the tender churl (gentle ignoramus? gentle rude? I would say, “gentle vandal”), and most importantly, “waste in niggarding" - extravagance from stinginess, extravagance in stinginess, i.e. stinginess, so senseless and reckless that it brings ruin and from this, in essence, is wastefulness. There is a failure in Gerbel's translation, the image has disappeared completely, alas.
Well, and the end - somehow not only the accuracy disappeared, but also the meaning. "Don't let him fall"
I don’t even know what to praise, but for its time it must have been a very good translation. With which we will leave it.

2. V. Likhachev (Edition of Brockhaus-Efron)

This edition appeared in 1904 and was a complete translation of the sonnets, but made not by one author, but by several.

We desire offspring from the chosen beings,
So that the rose of beauty blooms from generation to generation,
So that the old one, when he is crushed to the ground,
In place of the same young shoot arose.
And you, directing only a brilliant gaze into yourself,
You live his fire from the depths of your own blessings,
And where there is abundance, there is hunger,
Merciless to its charms, like a fierce enemy.
You, the world's best color and incomparable messenger
Of jubilant spring - you bury from people
In a closed ovary, your precious lot
And you are ruined by your stinginess:
Do not eat the world through measure and through force,
So that all his goodness is not taken to the grave.

Again iambic six-foot instead of pentameter, but this time the rhyming scheme is Shakespearean.
The beginning - the first two lines - I like. Both in essence and in form. Everything is crisp, clear and consistent with the original. And then it starts ... oh. "Young shoot" - I am completely convinced that even for 1904 it was not the best expression. “You live his fire from the depths of your own blessings”, “you bury ... your precious lot” (is it possible to bury a lot and what does the lot have to do with it in general?) ... You can disassemble word by word and line by line, but what is the point? Alas, most of the translation is frankly not written in Russian - at least in today's opinion.
Although "you go bankrupt from your stinginess" is good again. But apart from this line and the first two, I personally do not like anything.

3. Translation by M. Tchaikovsky

The translation was made, by the way, by the brother of the great Russian composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Modest Ilyich Tchaikovsky. It was published in 1914.

We wish beauty to multiply,
We want her color not to fade, -
So that the ripe fruit - like everything else, the prey of decay -
He gave us a tender heir.
And you, captivated by yourself, feeding
Your youthful ardor with its fuel, itself
Creating barrenness instead of a harvest,
The enemy himself, cruel to his gifts.
You are now a joy to the world of spring days,
One herald of the delights of spring,
In the rudiment you destroy the flower of your delight,
A miser and a spendthrift of heavenly beauty.
So have pity on the world, otherwise the fruit
Your beauty with you will devour the coffin.

Hooray, Shakespearean size finally! The beginning is again quite cheerful - such a healthy ambiguity, just in the spirit of Shakespeare's time: "we wish beauty to multiply." Well, really, it's lovely! Generally - the first quatrain is good.
The second - in general, is also good, except for “fuel” ... but, apparently, this was the norm for 1914. In the third, “one herald of the charms of spring” confuses me. Those. “herald of the charms of spring” is good, but “one” is not “the only one” ... in general, there is a distinct feeling that the cases in this line are not connected.
"Miser and spendthrift of heavenly beauty" - not exactly a failure, no, but still not enough. Did not play the image. And - "spring-beauty" ..? I beg of you.
In the last two lines, the case was again not connected. “Otherwise, the coffin will devour the fruit of your beauty with you” - huh? who stood on whom?
But in general, the translation sounds lively and quite modern, which cannot but bribe.

4. Translation by S. Marshak

The famous translation of Marshak - undoubtedly the most famous version of Shakespeare's sonnets in Russian - was published in 1948 and was awarded the Stalin Prize. As soon as they didn’t scold him - they say, there’s nothing left of the style, and it’s not Shakespeare at all ... nevertheless, generation after generation of readers will recognize Shakespeare’s sonnets in Marshak’s translation, and I don’t know what degree of perfection the new one should be translation to replace it with yourself.

We are waiting for the harvest from the best vines,
So that beauty lives without fading.
Let the petals of ripe roses wither,
The young rose keeps their memory.
And you, in love with your beauty,
All the best giving her juices,
Abundance turns into poverty
Your worst enemy, soulless and cruel.
You are the beauty of today
Herald of short-lived spring, -
Burying the future in its infancy
You combine stinginess with waste.
Pitying the world, do not betray the earth
A great harvest for the coming years!

Can you find fault with anything here? Here, put your hand on your heart? I - no, except for the cumbersome word "short". What I like most about Marshak - both in this sonnet and in others - is the clarity, the concreteness of the images, and in this he is just very close to the original. Those. Shakespeare - he does not talk about ideals, but operates with very earthly analogies; he literally explains everything to his addressee on his fingers, just like Vasily Ivanovich with potatoes: “Here we are, but the whites ...” Today, poets don’t write like that anymore, but Marshak managed to convey it. Not only to him, but he is the most consistent in this.
Yes, and “burying the future in its infancy, you combine stinginess with waste” - in my opinion, it is very accurately and clearly stated.

5. Translation by A. Finkel

It was published in 1976. In the process of preparing this post, by the way, it turned out that Finkel was also responsible for a good half of my favorite collection of literary parodies, Parnassus on End. Which, of course, characterizes him well.

From all creations we expect offspring,
So that the rose of beauty does not fade,
So that, filled with maturity, then
I would continue myself as heirs.
But you're tied to your own eyes
You feed your own flame,
And where there is fat, you made hunger yourself,
Harm yourself with your own deeds.
Now you are fresh and beautiful,
Spring cheerful herald serene.
But burying himself in himself,
You get poorer from stinginess, gentle miser.
Pitying the world, do not become a robber
And pay tribute to him.

“We expect offspring from all creations ...” - no, this is not the case when political correctness is needed. Not "from everyone". And this is an important enough point in the original, IMHO, to just rush to them.
“So that, having become full of maturity, then she would continue herself as heirs” - there are exactly two extra words, “then” and “would”, which are used exclusively to plug voids, and this is very noticeable.
“Tied to one's own eyes” - no, in this form the metaphor does not work at all, an inappropriate literal meaning appears. Nearly all translators before had dealt with the situation more gracefully.
“And where there is a knock, you made the famine yourself…” - hmmm... which of the readers knows what a “knock” is? I had to go to the explanatory dictionary.
However, I like "But burying myself in myself" - despite the fact that the "bud" has disappeared from this turnover. Repetitions here just work very well to attract attention. In general, the third quatrain, in my opinion, turned out to be very harmonious and very understandable, which does not always happen in translations of sonnets.
The "robber" at the end appears very suddenly, and I'm not sure that replacing "glutton" with "robber" is good for imagery.

We expect beauty from beauty,
So that the rose of beauty does not fade
And so that, dropping withered flowers,
Opened young buds.
With a candle in your fire you burn yourself,
In your burning eyes in love,
You send hunger to the bosom of abundance,
The enemy is himself, there is no one more cruel.
You are only the herald of spring, her flower,
With which she is rich on a May day,
You hide your treasure in yourself:
Such stinginess is a real waste!
Treasure for the world save -
Do not bury in the grave and in yourself.

To be honest, from this translation I have some kind of continuous facepalm, even worse than from Likhachev. I don’t even know what is more terrible - “withered flowers”, verbal rhymes, “bosom of abundance”, sudden archaisms of “what” and “more cruel” ... And my favorite image of stinginess and waste does not work again.
The only thing I like is the last two lines. Let them not quite accurately convey the letter of the original, but it is well said and aphoristic.

Beauty must always grow
A rose color should not fade,
Let maturity have to bloom
Grace will arise in the heir.
But you, as if you are not nice to yourself,
In the fire you burn with yourself in the fight
And turned abundance into hunger,
O enemy cruel to himself.
You adorned the world with your freshness,
Herald before the festive spring,
But you bury your own delicate color,
Dear squanderer, dear stinger...
Have pity on the world, do not offend him,
Do not save the harvest in the grave.

“Beautiful must always grow” - well, no, it’s not like that. Do not "grow" - "multiply"! And then there is a feeling that the beautiful should increase in size.
“In the fire you burn with yourself in the struggle” - you don’t need to put two dissimilar circumstances in the same case in the sentence, this causes a misunderstanding of who stood on whom. Well… it doesn’t make sense there. There is no struggle with yourself. Just an indication of a closed production cycle. 
“And turned abundance into hunger” - good. It's good when you can say it simply and briefly, while retaining the meaning.
Again the third quatrain is the best. And although “dear squanderer, dear stinger” is not at all what is said in the original, I like the intonation and parallel opposition so much here that God bless her, with accuracy.
The ending is weak, however: “Have pity on the world, don’t offend it” - why these repetitions? In Shakespeare, metaphors are so compressed into verses, with such density, that there is no room for repetition at all.

8. Translation by A. Sharakshane

Published in 2006. Absolutely fresh. For a long time I wondered what gender the author was and what kind of surname it was (stubbornly associated with Shagane). Then, nevertheless, I found out that the author is a man, his name is Alexander, and you will never guess the last name! - Buryat. That's what kind of Buryats we have. Not that it all had anything to do with the case, though.

We are always from a beautiful creation
We are waiting for offspring - so that the rose of beauty,
At the time of flowering and becoming the prey of decay,
In the offspring has found its features.
But you, betrothed with your beauty,
You nourish the light of your eyes by yourself -
Doomed to hunger in the midst of the feast,
To himself a cruel, dear enemy.
You are the young adornment of the world,
Herald of spring colors and flowers,
But he himself, a miser and at the same time a spender,
I am ready to bury myself in a bud.
Share! You will not eat what you owe to the world,
And only the grave will be a guest at the feast.

People! I really like this translation. Just unexpectedly like it. I don't even know what to complain about - and therefore I won't complain. It is both precise and technically very close to perfection, and stylistically good, and, most importantly, so lively and dynamic! I think it's wonderful. And even "share!" - although it, together with the mention of offspring in the first lines, suggests that the addressee will breed a-z unicellular ... nevertheless, even such an association looks like a cute joke and causes an additional smile. But this - “and only the grave will be a guest at the feast” - this is generally a charm! What an image for the finale - and what a Shakespearean one!

9. A. Gurevich

I don’t know anything, alas, except that the translation appeared already in the current century and that the author (so far?) has translated only part of the sonnets.

We expect multiplication from all living things,
So that the rose of beauty does not wilt for a century,
So that the mature color that dies every day,
He kept youthful features in his descendants.
And you, a hostage of your own eyes,
You burn in them to become ashes,
And you sow dry land, where there are so many springs,
You, your own enemy, are so greedily angry with yourself.
Wonderful sewing on the fabric of the world
And the first rider of the rainbow spring,
You bury everything in yourself
And, by scrounging, you spend out of the purse.
Please the world, because the thief is only a match
Hide in the grave what you have to give.

“We expect multiplication from all living things” - I want to ask: but don’t you expect addition and subtraction? Somehow... no. Inappropriate associations suggest themselves.
"Mature color" - well, no. Well, in the 21st century the word “color” is not perceived as “flower”, and this must be taken into account. Because although sonnets were written in the 17th century, we read them today. And then - well, how can "color" "keep youthful features in descendants"? s?
Here is a "hostage of one's own eyes" - this is great, this is a good find. Let not exactly what is in the original, but the image is good.
And then a terry gag went on, and God would be with her, with a letter, if the spirit was preserved, but it is not there either. “You burn in them to become ashes” - there is a completely different image, and it is good. It's not about ashes, but about the fact that this beautiful youngster spends his own strength - so to speak, "fuel" - on himself, and the efficiency is zero.
“To yourself so greedily angry” is a mockery of the Russian language, no matter how you turn it.
But “wonderful sewing and the first rider of the rainbow spring on the fabric of the world” - this is great, great, I was just very happy with these lines, it’s beautifully said.
“Scraping, you spend out of the purse” - again no, the image in this form is incomprehensible.
Well, it all ends rather sadly. More precisely, not dull, but unhealthy ambiguous. And this is not good, because the translator must be aware of such implications.

At this I was going to praise myself and congratulate myself on the fact that they figured out the first sonnet, when I suddenly came across a bunch of translations. But if I insert this bunch here, then it’s completely clear that no one will be able to master them, so, apparently, there will be a continuation. And at such a cheerful pace, we will complete the discussion of all the sonnets in three years. I'm in no hurry, are you?

Well, in conclusion - it seems to me that it is more interesting to parse and compare translations if you then choose the best one.
Ergo - which of the translations published in this post did you like the most?

I believe that literary translation is a creative, research work, akin to scientific work, in which the main thing is truth, and not praise to authorities. In my life, Vlasov and Brumel were idols for me, so I'm not afraid to raise the bar above the record, I know that there is no limit to perfection, any champion eventually becomes an ex. This is what progress is based on. Buy my book Tales in online stores. Fables. Shakespeare translations coming soon. Ask.
From fairest creatures we desire to increase,
That thereby beauty "s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decay,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed "st thy light" s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance of lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak "st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

From the most beautiful creatures we desire offspring,
so that the rose of beauty never dies,
but when the more mature rose* eventually dies,
her tender heir carried her memory.
But you, betrothed with clear eyes of your own,
feed your bright flame with the fuel of your essence,
creating hunger where there is abundance,
his own enemy, too cruel to his sweet person.
You who are now the fresh ornament of the world
and the only herald of colorful spring,
in your own bud you bury your content
and, gentle miser, you waste yourself in avarice.
Have pity on the world, otherwise become a glutton,
having eaten the due to the world for a couple with the grave.
Today, millions who know English well are able to make a good interlinear. Artistic translation of the unit. A good translation in half a century is one. The French poet and literary theorist Nicolas Boileau wrote: "A sonnet without misses is worth a long poem." Translating a sonnet is more difficult than writing an original one. I checked it myself. A special intuition is needed to examine a sonnet and find a key word that cannot be thrown away during translation.
The core of the first quatrain of the first sonnet is a collective image - a rose of beauty. Marshak did not understand this, as a result, in the first quatrain, two unrelated couplets appeared, ended with dots.
We are waiting for the harvest from the best vines,
So that beauty lives without fading.
Let the petals of ripe roses wither,
The young rose keeps their memory.
It is not clear how the harvest from the vines will help not to fade beauty. The vine has never been a symbol of beauty. Marshak talks about flora. Shakespeare about offspring from the most beautiful creatures of nature i.e. both flora and fauna. These descendants are the rose of beauty, which is passed from generation to generation, through the most beautiful creatures. This is the meaning of Shakespeare's first quatrain. It is conveyed in one extended metaphor. Marshak divided it into two, about the harvest and the rose without linking them with the rose of beauty. As a result, he was forced to write in the castle:
Pitying the world, do not betray the earth
A great harvest for the coming years!
How can the harvest of the coming years be committed to the earth? It needs to be grown first. It is not clear how it is associated with beauty. In relation to the harvest, the epithet beautiful means plentiful, but not beautiful at all. The word, its shades, the translator must feel. It turned out an example of how it is impossible to translate. Why Chukovsky and other critics didn't notice this I can't understand. Apparently, blinded by the name and merits, friendship.
My translation:
We expect offspring from the pearl of beauty -
So the rose of beauty does not die,
O mature, with a fading flower,
Her heir retains the memory:

But, betrothed with a look to himself,
You feed the flame with youthful charm,
Richly rewarded with beauty
You punish yourself with celibacy as an enemy.

You are the decoration of the world, the standard,
The beauty of spring is the only herald,
Your cute appearance, burying in a bud,
Like a miser, you squander a meager pay.

Pitying the world, do not take with you
In the grave of the world, the face is dear.
This is the fundamental sonnet. His thought, the poet, with amazing ingenuity, varies in the first seventeen sonnets, persuading a friend to leave behind posterity. From sonnet to sonnet speaks of the fading of beauty. How could Marshak write:
“So that beauty lives without fading,” I can’t imagine. With this, he tore the first sonnet out of the context of the sonnets that followed it, saving the fading beauty from death. In Shakespeare, having faded, she continued to live in heirs and poems. It is these subtleties that make true translation so difficult.
Likhachev replaced iambic pentameter with six-foot one, he managed to translate the first couplet almost correctly:
From the chosen beings we desire offspring,
So that the rose of beauty blooms from generation to generation,
The chosen ones are not synonymous with the most beautiful, they are rather the best, so the connection with the rose of beauty is poorly visible. But then, even worse:
So that the old one, when he is crushed to the ground,
In place of the same young shoot arose.
Confused: the same shoot, i.e. oppressed, hunchbacked? If he wrote: A beautiful, young shoot came to replace - there would be no questions. Correctly say: from the side you know better. You in my translations, perhaps, will see what I do not see. The fact that translation is not a simple matter, I hope, convinced.

6 sonnet

Then let not winter "s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:
Make sweet some vial; treasure you some place
With beauty "s treasure ere it be self-killed:
That use is not forbidden usury
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier be it ten for one;
ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could die do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving you living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

So don't let the harsh hand of winter disfigure
in you is your summer before your essence is released;
fill some vessel with sweetness, enrich some receptacle
[place]
the treasure of your beauty before it self-destructs.
Such use [placement in growth] is not prohibited
usury,
it makes happy those who pay the voluntary loan;
you have the right to create another yourself
or become ten times happier if the "percentage" is ten to
alone.
Tenfold, you'd be happier than now
if ten of your children reproduced your appearance ten times;
then what could death do if you left this world,
leaving himself to live in posterity?
Don't be wayward 'cause you're too beautiful
To become the prey of death and make the worms your heirs.
In italics, I highlighted in the interlinear key words necessary for a correct understanding of the author's thought.
Don't let winter ruin summer
Killing the flower in you with the essence;
Pass your appearance like a baton,
Spilling life-giving juice into bowls.

Such a loan does not kill the soul,
And the flesh does not doom to prison,
With their offspring, populating the land,
Pay a percentage - at least ten to one.

Who are ten sons - his own grandson
Persuade during life to give,
He will be happy, death will lower his hands,
Seeing that the whole race cannot be exterminated.

Humble your temper, your face is too sweet
So that you feed him to the worms in the earth.

See that a hard hand
I didn’t visit the garden in gray winter, in whose garden?
Until you pick the flowers, until
You can't pour spring into crystal phial. What phial? How to pour?

Like a man, what a precious contribution
With more than abundant received back,
You will be glad to get yourself back as it is yourself - to yourself, and even with a profit?
With a legitimate profit tenfold.

You will live ten times in the world, not you, but your appearance, beauty!
Repeated ten times in children,
And you will have the right in your last hour
Triumph over conquered death. Dying to celebrate?

You are too generously endowed with fate,
May perfection die with you.
Shakespeare is not about perfection, but about good looks. Marshak changed his tone. Shakespeare does not affirm, but asks: Do not be wayward.
Marshak's first quatrain is his invention. A cruel hand in the garden is an occasion for parody. The second stanza is translated no better. The castle failed.
I do not want to cast a shadow on Marshak in the anniversary year. He is a wonderful poet, a great translator, but, like all of us, he is not immune from mistakes. Only God is sinless.
Probably, there are incidents in my translation, I just don’t see them. I will be grateful to the critics if they point me to them. Unbiased scientific dispute is the engine of progress. I think you will agree that my translation is a step forward compared to the previous ones.