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.
«I don’t think of you often at all / I’m not interested much in your fate, / But the imprint you left on my soul / On our trivial meeting won’t fade. I avoid your red house by design, / Your red house overlooking the water, / But I know I disturb every time / Your sun-pierced peace...»
«These squares are so spacious and wide, / These resonant bridges — so steep! / Above us, the cover of night / Is starless, tranquil and deep. Like mortals, we walk, hand in hand, / On snow that has only begun. / What wonder it is that we’ll spend / This pre-parting hour as one? My ...»
«To O. A. Kuzmina-Karavaeva “If we reach the shore, we’re spared, / My beloved!” — “Silence, please…” / We began to descend down the stairs, / Breathless, and searching for keys. Leaving buildings behind in the night, / Where we used to drink wine and dance, / Past the Senat...»
«When, with a firm but tired hand, / In the dreariest of capitals, / On the page of white I penned / My rejection, unretractable, And the damp wind from afar / Through the window, streamed inside, / It appeared, the sky was charred / With a smoky-crimson light. I didn’t gaze at the Ne...»