Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 41

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Come, joy of my life, let us go,

let’s walk around our garden,

and look at what has changed in the world!

Give me your hand, my sweet, my love,

bring me my old walking stick.

Let’s go, before summer passes by.

No matter that I lie in my grave—

there’s no end to what one forgets!

From the garden, you can see a small river,

in the river, you see every last fish.