City of splendour, city of poor,
spirit of grace and servitude,
heaven’s vault of palest lime,
boredom, granite, bitter cold —
still I miss you rather, for
down your streets from time to time
one may spy a tiny foot,
one may glimpse a lock of gold.
Город пышный, город бедный,
Дух неволи, стройный вид,
Свод небес зелёно-бледный,
Скука, холод и гранит —
Всё же мне вас жаль немножко,
Потому что здесь порой
Ходит маленькая ножка,
Вьётся локон золотой.
«To Faina Grigorievna Ranevskaya I forgive you almost all your sins / Only two of them I can’t allow: / Poetry you whisper to yourself, / And you kiss out loud. / / Sin, have fun, and blossom with the years. / Only heed my mother advice — / A kiss, my darling, isn’t for the ears...»
«To Khodasevich / / A childhood memory: those pears, / wrinkled, little, tight, / and hidden inside / tart flesh that puckered the mouth: / exactly so my delight / in the bitter shards of your verse. »
«I shall not lie to find a lurid rhyme, / Honoured master, no harsh words from you: / Since the cot your choice has not been mine, / I can only do what I can do. / / How heartily I thank relentless Fate / For the prickly Muse that I’ve been given: / The path we walk is ours, though i...»
«Drowsily an aged pine / rustles in her sleep. / Leaning on her coarse-grained trunk / Here I stand and speak. / "little pine-tree, just my age, / Give me of your strength! / Not the usual nine months, / forty years I carried, / forty years I had been bearing, / forty years I had be...»