He that hath the bride is the bridegroom: but
the friend of the bridegroom, which standeth
and heareth him, rejoiceth greatly because of
the bridegroom’s voice.
From John III.29
I’m ten years old. I light a wick
And shield the censer’s nascent flame.
Without a word or thought, she sits
Upon that shore and calls my name.
I love the whispered evening prayer
At White Church by the quiet rill,
The hamlet in the sunset’s glare,
And twilight’s murky, pale blue still.
I, humble to its tender glance,
Admire beauty’s mystery
And by the church, along the fence
Toss snow-white flowers in front of me.
The misty veil will later drop,
The groom will quit the altar’s dais,
And from the forest’s jagged top
Will stream forth dawn’s first nuptial rays.
Имеющий непесту есть жених; а
друг жениха, стоящий и внимаю-
щий ему, радосгью радуется,
слыша голос жениха.
От Иоанна, III, 29
Я, отрок, зажигаю свечи,
Огонь кадильный берегу.
Она без мысли и без речи
На том смеется берегу.
Люблю вечернее моленье
У белой церкви над рекой,
Передзакатное селенье
И сумрак мутно-голубой.
Покорный ласковому взгляду,
Любуюсь тайной красоты,
И за церковную ограду
Бросаю белые цветы.
Падет туманная завеса.
Жених сойдет из алтаря.
И от вершин зубчатых леса
Забрежжит брачная заря.
«O Muse of Weeping... / — M. Tsvetaeva I have turned aside from everything, / From the whole earthly store. / The spirit and guardian of this place / is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, / And life is a habit we put on. / On paths of air I seem ...»
«It’s good that Russia has no Tsar, / it’s good that Russia’s just a dream, / it’s good that God has disappeared, that nothing’s real, except the stars / in icy skies, the yellow gleam / of dawn, the unrelenting years. It’s good that people don’t exist, / that nothingness is...»
«The sun fills my room, / Yellow dust drifts aslant. / I wake up and remember: / This is your saint’s day. That’s why even the snow / Outside my window is warm, / Why I, sleepless, have slept / Like a communicant.»
«Do you forgive me these November days? / In canals around the Neva fires fragment. / Scant is tragic autumn’s finery.»