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.
«Your stripe will be harvested / By which person's arms? / O the black magician you! / My black-plaited one! Your tumultuous century, / And your midnight days... / All your little workers are / At once born away. Where are your campaigner friends, / Your comrades in arms? / O the b...»
«S E Brothers! In the last hour / Of year — after our / Russian land, living in us! / Exactly twelve times / Mug to mug! After the rabble of honor, / After Taman, after Kuban, / After our Russian Don, / Jordan of old faith... Once more, / Mug to mug! Comrades! / Alive still i...»
«When horses die, they breathe / When grasses die, they wither, / When suns die, they go out, / When people die, they sing songs.»
«I hate the roar of giant cities, neighborhoods, / I am repulsed by crowd commotion, / My spirit lives in depths of woods, / Where in secluded calm devotion / I hark to music of unseen sweet voices' moods, / ...»