As I was growing old and fading,
A poet, used to streaks of grey,
I wanted to postpone the ending
The aged men should face some day.
A sickly man, a puny creature,
I'm looking for a lucky star,
And in my senile dreams I picture
A lovely image, now so far.
Perchance I have forgotten something,
I don't believe in such a lie.
This tremor has aroused nothing.
I"m neither moved nor touched. Not I!
These old time silly tales and stories
Have fascinated me somehow,
But I've been bowed by age and worries,
It's funny, I am a poet now...
I don"t believe in books and omens
Of silly men of our times!
Damn all those dreams! Damn all those moments
Of my prophetic dogg"rel rhymes!
So here I am, alone and lonely
An angry man, decrepit, sick...
I stretch my hand and with a quandary
Bend down to pick my walking stick...
Whom should I trust? Whom should I doubt?
Those doctors, poets, priests and all...
If only I could join a crowd
And learn to be a trivial soul!
Когда я стал дряхлеть и стынуть,
Поэт, привыкший к сединам,
Мне захотелось отодвинуть
Конец, сужденный старикам.
И я опять, больной и хилый,
Ищу счастливую звезду.
Какой-то образ, прежде милый,
Мне снится в старческом бреду,
Быть может, память изменила,
Но я не верю в эту ложь,
И ничего не пробудила
Сия пленительная дрожь.
Все эти россказни далече —
Они пленяли с юных лет,
Но старость мне согнула плечи,
И мне смешно, что я поэт...
Устал я верить жалким книгам
Таких же розовых глупцов!
Проклятье снам! Проклятье мигам
Моих пророческих стихов!
Наедине с самим собою
Дряхлею, сохну, душит злость,
И я морщинистой рукою
С усильем поднимаю трость...
Кому поверить? С кем мириться?
Врачи, поэты и попы…
Ах, если б мог я научиться
Бессмертной пошлости толпы!
«Now my grief won't be spilt by the ringing, / Happy laugh of the bygone last. / Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming / And the nightingale dawns have passed. / / All was new to me then, and emotions / Filled my heart to the brim, so good. / Whereas now every word, kind and cautio...»
«Life is tricky with enchanting pathos / That is why it is so powerful, and / It composes its pernicious letters / With its outrageous, rugged hand. / / When I close my eyes I tacitly declare: / Touch your heart and you will plainly see, / Life is fraudulent, but here and there / ...»
«Both this street and this little house / Have been long so familiar to me. / Up the window the blue straws of wires / Are weighed down as they once used to be. / / There've been years of austere contingency / Years of vehement endeavours, too. / I remember my village, my infancy / ...»
«I have left my endeared home, / Getting out of my Russia of blue. / Little grove by the pond will warm / My old mother's sorrow anew. / / Like a golden croaker the moon / Lies prostrate on the water tranquil. / Grizzly hair, like apple-tree bloom, / In my father's beard will spill...»