What grief! The alley's end
Is lost in snow again today,
And once again, the silver snakes
Are crawling through the snow.
The sky's without a patch of blue,
The steppe's completely smooth and white,
A single crow is struggling hard
To beat its wings against the storm.
My soul is frozen as the land,
There is no sign of dawning there.
My languid thought drops off to sleep
Above my slowly dying work.
But in my heart still glows a hope
That accidentally, perhaps,
My soul will once again grow young
And see its native home once more,
A land where storms may come and go,
Where thought is passionate and pure, —
And where a chosen few can see
How spring and beauty bloom.
Какая грусть! Конец аллеи
Опять с утра исчез в пыли,
Опять серебряные змеи
Через сугробы поползли.
На небе ни клочка лазури,
В степи все гладко, все бело,
Один лишь ворон против бури
Крылами машет тяжело.
И на душе не рассветает,
В ней тот же холод, что кругом,
Лениво дума засыпает
Над умирающим трудом.
А все надежда в сердце тлеет,
Что, может быть, хоть невзначай,
Опять душа помолодеет,
Опять родной увидит край,
Где бури пролетают мимо,
Где дума страстная чиста, —
И посвященным только зримо
Цветет весна и красота.
«The grove in the fall — weeping amber, the circling of leaves, / the dark slow water. / The season of fall, and the temple of quietened trees, / the nature's high altar. The season of fall, what's your promise? I live in suspense, / in anticipation / of some future date, of the meeting,...»
«I can't force a line. I am finished. Run dry. / Try this way, and that — everything is awry. / The river is freezing, and grey is the sky — / the season of birdlessness, ice and stagnation. / All kinds of boloney, in endless supply, / creep into my thinking and feed my frustration, / ...»
«OK, it has happened. Your cranes have returned. / The air of hunting is filling your sheets. / Your powder's dry in your powder-horns. / Oh, well, this is great! / / And even the stars play in favor of you, / and all constellations play into your hands, / in daring thoughts you're a n...»
«Everybody chooses for himself / His religion, loyalties and women. / Service to a prophet, or a demon, / Everybody chooses for himself. Everybody chooses on his own / The word for loving and the word for praying, / A dueling foil, a sword for dragonslaying. / Everybody chooses on his ...»