to S. Solovyov
Obscure daily shadows run about.
The sound of the bells is clear and high.
The stairs of the church are shining out,
Alive, they're waiting for you to come by.
As you step in you'll touch a boulder, faintly,
Clad in the gruesome virtue of the past,
Perchance, you"ll drop an April flower gently
Amidst the prudent icons, in the dusk...
The rosy shadows run, obscure and scarce,
The sound of the bells is clear and high,
Dark mist is falling on the aged stairs...
I'm waiting for your footsteps to come by.
С. Соловьеву
Бегут неверные дневные тени.
Высок и внятен колокольный зов.
Озарены церковные ступени,
Их камень жив — и ждет твоих шагов.
Ты здесь пройдешь, холодный камень тронешь,
Одетый страшной святостью веков,
И, может быть, цветок весны уронишь
Здесь, в этой мгле, у строгих образов.
Растут невнятно розовые тени,
Высок и внятен колокольный зов,
Ложится мгла на старые ступени...
Я озарен — я жду твоих шагов.
«Yesterday at six / I stopped by Hay Square; / They were whipping a woman, / A young peasant, there. Not a sound from her breast, / Just the lash, playing, whistled... / And I said to my Muse: / "Look! It's your sister!"»
«What a night! How pure the air, / How silvery the slumbering leaf, / How black the shadow of the bankside willows, / How serenely the bay sleeps, / How still it is — nowhere a wave's sigh — / How full the breast is with silence! Midnight light, you're the same as day: / Except the ...»
«Like a bright sun a bonfire flares up in the forest, / And, contracting, the juniper creaks; / Like a crowded choir of drunken giants, / The fir-grove, reddened, sways. I forgot to think about the cold night,-- / I was warmed to the very bone and heart; / My troubles wavered then vanished...»
«A whisper, timid breathing. / A nightingale's trill, / The silver and the rocking / Of a drowsy rill. Night's light, night's shades, / Shades without cease, / A series of magic changes / In a dear face, In smoky clouds a rose's purple...»