My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning,
Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning,
A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge
Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge
And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.
I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,
Meet mine... I see your smile... You speak to me alone:
My friend, my dearest friend... I love... I'm yours... your own.
Мой голос для тебя и ласковый и томный
Тревожит позднее молчанье ночи темной.
Близ ложа моего печальная свеча
Горит; мои стихи, сливаясь и журча,
Текут, ручьи любви, текут, полны тобою.
Во тьме твои глаза блистают предо мною,
Мне улыбаются, и звуки слышу я:
Мой друг, мой нежный друг... люблю... твоя... твоя...
«In her shameless and pathetic baseness, / Like dust, she is gray, like mortal remains. / And I am dying of this fatal closeness, / Because she cannot be dissolved from me. She is rough and she is thorny; / She is cold — she is a snake. / I am wounded all over by her sickly-burning, / ...»
«There, where red water from the sunrise / Seems spilled across the cabbage rows, / A maple sapling stretches to nurse / From its mother tree’s green udders.»
«It’s evening. Dew / Sparkles the nettles. / I stand in the roadway / Resting among willows. Moon’s light is strong / Striking our roofs. / I listen to the song, / Nightingales far off. It’s warm and nice / Like winter by a stove. / Like tall candles / Birches stand above. ...»
«For A. M Remizov Riveted in place on her shattered paw / She had curled near to her den. / A thin trickle of blood in the snow / Framed her face’s pain. The shot and bristly smoke remained / In her eyes from its burst from the fen. / From the scrubby bushes like wind / Pellets had sc...»