Afar sail shimmers, white and lonely,
Through the blue haze above the foam.
What does it seek in foreign harbours?
What has it left behind at home?
The billows romp, and the wind whistles.
The rigging swings, and the tall mast creaks.
Alas, it is not joy, he flees from,
Nor is it happiness he seeks.
Below, the seas like blue light flowing,
Above, the sun's gold streams increase,
But it is storm the rebel asks for,
As though in storms were peace.
* * *
Translated by Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky, 1927.
[Этот перевод для меня всегда служил эталоном - ВП]