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...
«As a silver, delicate strand / Is woven in my dark tresses — / Only you, silent nightingale, / Can understand this torment. Your sensitive ear hears distance, / In the willow’s thin branches, / Ruffled, you gaze — without breathing — / If a strange song sounds. But a moment ag...»
«Gold dovecote by waters, / Tender and dazzlingly green; / A salt-breeze sweeps away / The gondola’s narrow wake. Such sensitive, strange eyes in the streets, / The bright toys in the shops: / A lion with a book, on a lace pillow, / A lion with a book, on a marble pillar. As in an anc...»
«All’s as it was: the snowstorm’s / Fine flakes wet the window pane, / And I myself am not new-born, / But a man came to me today. I asked: "What do you wish?" / He said: "To be with you in hell". / I laughed: "Ah, sadly, / No: perhaps you wish me ill." But, his dry hand touched / ...»
«I came to the poet as a guest. / Exactly at noon. On Sunday. / Beyond the window, frost, / Quiet in the room’s space. And a raspberry tinted sun / Above tangles of blue smoke... / How clearly the taciturn / Master turns, on me, his look! His eyes are of that kind / Remembered by on...»