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.
«The fire and the page, the hewed hairs and the swords, / The grains and the millstone, the whispers and the clatter — / God saves all that — especially the words / Of love and pity, as His only way to utter. The harsh pulse pounds and the blood torrent whips, / The spade knocks even...»
«The fire and the page, the hewed hairs and the swords, / The grains and the millstone, the whispers and the clatter — / God saves all that — especially the words / Of love and pity, as His only way to utter. The harsh pulse pounds and the blood torrent whips, / The spade knocks evenl...»
«I’ve set my folks on a vacation, / From friends I’ve drifted far apart, / And now the permanent dejection / Submerses nature and the heart. Inside this lodge, we’re left alone. / The woods are dreary and remote. / And sprouts of grass, like in the song, / Have overgrown each path ...»
«Cool Water gurgles in the river / and the mountains’ shadow lies on the fields / and light fades in the sky. And birds / are already flying in dreams. / And the yardman with the black moustache / stands all night by the gate / and under his dirty hat he scratches / the back of his he...»