Once again the storm-clouds hover
In the silence over me;
Jealous Fate again hangs over,
Menacing my misery.
Shall I face my Fate, disdaining?
Shall I bear it and display
All the patience uncomplaining
That was mine in youth’s proud day?
Tossed by stormy life and driven.
Careless of this storm I wait;
Maybe I shall find a haven
To protect me from my Fate. . . .
But to part — my fear foretold it!
That dread hour we cannot flee.
Let me take your hand and hold it;
For the last time give it me.
Kind and quiet Angel, hear me;
Speak to me with soft good-byes.
You have been somournful. Near me
Let your sweet face fall or rise.
The remembrance of your caring
More than compensation pays
For the strength and pride and daring
And the hope of youthful days.
Снова тучи надо мною
Собралися в тишине;
Рок завистливый бедою
Угрожает снова мне...
Сохраню ль к судьбе презренье?
Понесу ль навстречу ей
Непреклонность и терпенье
Гордой юности моей?
Бурной жизнью утомленный,
Равнодушно бури жду:
Может быть, еще спасенный,
Снова пристань я найду...
Но, предчувствуя разлуку,
Неизбежный, грозный час,
Сжать твою, мой ангел, руку
Я спешу в последний раз.
Ангел кроткий, безмятежный,
Тихо молви мне: прости,
Опечалься: взор свой нежный
Подыми иль опусти;
И твое воспоминанье
Заменит душе моей
Силу, гордость, упованье
И отвагу юных дней.
«A cardboard box of sugared orange — / My little garret. / No need to trudge through dingy lodgings / To the mortuary! I moved again into this room — / From superstition. / The paper on the walls is brown, / The door is singing. I h...»
«They bring a bouquet of thistles / And put it on the table. / Before me, a fire, a turmoil. / The purple dance of flames. / These sharp-pointed stars, / These splashes of northern lights. / Tambourines thunder and moan. / Lanterns burst from inside. / This too is a way of making worl...»
«In broad-brimmed hats, wearing long coats, / With notebooks full of your poems, / You have scattered long since into dust / Like branches of dry lilac. You are in the country without ready-made shapes, / Where all is disjointed, mixed up, broken, / Where instead of the sky there is o...»
«Time’s river in its rushing course / carries away all human things, / drowns in oblivion’s abyss / peoples and kingdoms and their kings. And if the trumpet or the lyre / should rescue something, small or great, / eternity will gulp it down / and it will share the common fate.»