The city sleeps, wrapped in the haze,
The streetlamps barely glimmer...
And I can see the morning rays
Beyond the Neva, start to shimmer.
This distant and opaque reflection,
This gleam of the awaking blaze
Conceals the nearing resurrection
Of dreary, melancholy days...
Город спит, окутан мглою,
Чуть мерцают фонари...
Там, далёко за Невою,
Вижу отблески зари.
В этом дальнем отраженьи,
В этих отблесках огня
Притаилось пробужденье
Дней тоскливых для меня...
«I pray to the ray from the window-pane — / It’s pale, thin, and straight. / All morning I was silent, / My heart — split in two. / The copper of my wash-basin / Is green with verdigris, / But sunlight plays there, / How joyously. / So simple it is, so innocent, / In evening q...»
«He loved three things, alive: / White peacocks, songs at eve, / And antique maps of America. / Hated when children cried, / And raspberry jam with tea, / And feminine hysteria. / ...And he had married me.»
«My feather brushed the carriage roof. / I was gazing into his eyes. / The pain, in my heart, I failed to know, / Caused by my own sighs. The evening breathless, heavily-chained / Under a heavenly cloud-bank, / As in the Bois de Boulogne, stained, / In some old album, with Indian ink. S...»
«I won’t beg for your love. / It’s safely laid aside…. / I won’t be penning jealous / Letters to your bride. / But be wise, take my advice: / Give her my poems to read, / Give her my photos beside — / Be kind to the newly-wed! / Oh, knowledge is better for geese, / Feeling...»