We waited commonly for sleep or even death.
The instances were wearisome as ages.
But suddenly the wind's refreshing breath
Touched through the window the Holy Bible's pages:
An old man goes there — who's now all white-haired —
With rapid steps and merry eyes, alone,
He smiles to us, and often calls with hand,
And leaves us with a gait, that is well-known.
And suddenly we all, who watched the old man's track,
Well recognized just him who now lay before us,
And turning in a sudden rapture back,
Beheld a corpse with eyes forever closed...
And it was good for us the soul's way to trace,
And, in the leaving one, to find the glee it's forming.
The time had come. Recall and love in grace,
And celebrate another house-warming!
Мы вместе ждали смерти или сна.
Томительные проходили миги.
Вдруг ветерком пахнуло от окна,
Зашевелился лист Священной Книги.
Там старец шел — уже, как лунь, седой —
Походкой бодрою, с веселыми глазами,
Смеялся нам, и всё манил рукой,
И уходил знакомыми шагами.
И вдруг мы все, кто был, — и стар и млад
Узнали в нем того, кто перед нами,
И, обернувшись с трепетом назад,
Застали прах с закрытыми глазами...
Но было сладко душу уследить
И в отходящей увидать веселье.
Пришел наш час — запомнить и любить,
И праздновать иное новоселье.
«The world has gone to whole null; / Takes no kind of intimation; / Tell him not straight, “You are a fool.” — / He’ll take it as an acclamation! / They used to hate, in a whole span, / All with a seal of sense, forever! / So, if I want to hurt a man, / I ...»
«Like a boy, she is curly and frisky, / Like a butterfly — wrapped in the brightness; / And words that are empty or misty, / In her lips, are full of a kindness. / She can’t like a person for long: / Hates habits as chains on her body, / A snake, she will slip away, strong, / And f...»
«You understood, oh glum perfection, / Those sadly and unconscious dreams, / The rush of zeal and inspirations — / All that Lord Byron conquered with. / I see the image, that’s half-shown, / But strongly and abruptly marked. / Is that a runaway, well known, / In holy cassock of a ...»
«All pity you: you’re so tired! / You didn’t want at all to dance — / And spent all night in dancing mire! / Wasn’t it so good to stop at last? / But if men rightly could distinguish / Your mind and goodness of your words, — / I swear by timelessness of gods — / Mazur...»