Foreseeing you, as years are passing by —
Your image is unchanged in my perception.
I cannot bear the lucid, blazing sky,
And so I wait — in love and in dejection.
The sky is blazing, — you will soon appear,
But how I fear: You image will be changed,
And the suspicion you’ll evoke will be austere,
Your features will appear to me as strange.
How I’ll collapse — so low and so morose,
Defeated by the fatal dream, deranged!
How lucid is the sky! The radiance is close.
But how I fear: your image will be changed.
И тяжкий сон житейского сознанья
Ты отряхнешь, тоскуя и любя.
Вл. Соловьев
Предчувствую Тебя. Года проходят мимо —
Всё в облике одном предчувствую Тебя.
Весь горизонт в огне — и ясен нестерпимо,
И молча жду, — тоскуя и любя.
Весь горизонт в огне, и близко появленье,
Но страшно мне: изменишь облик Ты,
И дерзкое возбудишь подозренье,
Сменив в конце привычные черты.
О, как паду — и горестно, и низко,
Не одолев смертельные мечты!
Как ясен горизонт! И лучезарность близко.
Но страшно мне: изменишь облик Ты.
«Wait for me and I'll return, / Only please, do wait. / Wait when yellow autumn storm / Takes your joy away. / Wait while snow downfall, / Wait while summer heat. / Wait when no one at all / Was waiting, as you did. / Wait when letter faraway / Wouldn't come to you. / Wait when ev...»
«For three long months continues the bombardment. / The bloodstained Malakhov withstands it still. / The hoarse-voiced drum drives on the British redcoats. / Once more they throw themselves against the hill! But by the far Pacific on Kamchatka / The fortress slumbers on in peace profound. / ...»
«Not long ago, when I was at a dinner, / I heard a toast — and here I write it down. "I had a dream" the speaker said to us / "That I had died, and yet I was not dead / And there before me lay a final road / On which I walked, with neither food nor fire. / An empty plain stretched out i...»
«It is as if my friends are marching / And I along with them, in time, / Through many different streets they're passing, / Those nearest, dearest friends of mine. They are not those with whom I started / And learned my letters, in my place, / Nor those with whom I shaved moustaches / Sti...»