Another girl I still adore
With merry twinkling eyes,
Who praised a hundred times or more
My poetry to the skies.
A girl who’s spiteful I adore,
A simple girl, too, I adore,
And one who’s prudish I adore,
And one who’s touchy I adore,
And one who finds it all a bore.
The girl who’s very tractable,
The merry girl, too, I adore
And even the refractory.
There is a girl whom I adore
In every town and village,
And women students by the score
All set my senses thrilling.
I call them all «my dear», «my dove»
In frenzy bold and dashing—
There are a hundred girls I love
All with an equal passion.
Why do you glare at me again
As at an enemy?
«I’m one among a hundred, then?
Thank you for telling me!»
No, wait! The hundred, can’t you see,
All in yourself are shown.
A hundred girls you are to me
And I am yours alone.
That time when I was wandering,
A barefoot country boy,
It’s you I met beside the spring,
Who woke my heart to joy.
And in that city by the sea,
Where salty breezes blew,
You surely must remember me,
The youth who followed you?
You surely must recall the sound
Of racing train wheels, Moscow-bound?
You are a hundred girls in one,
And all of them embrace.
In you I find both sorrow, fun,
Rough winter, summer grace.
Sometimes you are indifferent
And cruel, I confess,
At other times—obedient
And purest gentleness.
Wherever you have wished to fly,
I followed in your wake.
Whatever took your fancy, I
Acquired for your sake.
We’ve visited the silent hills,
Where clouds caress the heather,
And cities plying varied skills
We have approached together.
There are a hundred girls I love,
All with an equal passion…
It’s you I call «my dear», «my dove»
In frenzy bold and dashing.
I love a hundred girls, it’s true,
But every one of them is you!