What an evening! Streamlets run.
Banks are breaking,
Nightingales in set of sun
Music making.
Moonbeams from on high invade,
Flood the fallows;
In the gully willows’ shade,
Gleam of shallows.
There’s an old leak in the weir.
Planks are failing;
Dangerously lean you here
On the railing.
So to new life everything
Spring delivers;
Every field and copse must sing
As it quivers.
Like these choirs, we shall be dumb,
Cease from singing;
But our children then will come,
Carols ringing.
Not they only, — grandsons too
With a chorus;
With the spring to earth will flow
Tunes sonorous.
Что за вечер! А ручей
Так и рвется.
Как зарей-то соловей
Раздается!
Месяц светом с высоты
Обдал нивы,
А в овраге блеск воды,
Тень да ивы.
Знать, давно в плотине течь:
Доски гнилы, —
А нельзя здесь не прилечь
На перилы.
Так-то всё весной живет!
В роще, в поле
Всё трепещет и поет
Поневоле.
Мы замолкнем, что в кустах
Хоры эти, —
Придут с песнью на устах
Наши дети;
А не дети, так пройдут
С песнью внуки:
К ним с весною низойдут
Те же звуки.
«I am deprived of everything, / of health, of will, of air, of sleep. / A vengeful God has let me keep / just you — to keep me praying to Him.»
«It’s time my friends, it’s time. We long for peace / of heart. But days chase days and every hour / gone by means one less hour to come. We live / our lives, dear friend, in hope of life, then die. / There is no happiness on earth, but peace / exists, and freedom too. Tired slave, I dr...»
«City of splendour, city of poor, / spirit of grace and servitude, / heaven’s vault of palest lime, / boredom, granite, bitter cold — / still I miss you rather, for / down your streets from time to time / one may spy a tiny foot, / one may glimpse a lock of gold.»
«Like a jester complaining of the cruel weight / of his hump – let me tell about my orphaned state. Behind the devil there’s his horde, behind the thief there’s his band, / behind everyone there’s someone to understand and support him – the assurance of a living wall / of thousands ...»