The heavy clouds at length are scattering.
O Star of sorrow, star of evening,
Thy ray has silvered the fast-fading plain,
The quiet gulf, the black rocks of the main.
I love thy feeble light in the far heaven,
It wakes old thoughts now unto slumber given.
Have I not seen thee rise, remembered Star,
Across the peaceful land where all things are
Dear to the heart; where poplars stand in state
Along the vale, and myrtles delicate,
And gloomy cypresses, and evermore
The south winds sing. Along the hills and shore,
Full of sweet thoughts, in dreaming idleness,
In older days my feet were wont to press.
Редеет облаков летучая гряда.
Звезда печальная, вечерняя звезда!
Твой луч осеребрил увядшие равнины,
И дремлющий залив, и чёрных скал вершины.
Люблю твой слабый свет в небесной вышине;
Он думы разбудил, уснувшие во мне:
Я помню твой восход, знакомое светило,
Над мирною страной, где всё для сердца мило,
Где стройны тополы в долинах вознеслись,
Где дремлет нежный мирт и тёмный кипарис,
И сладостно шумят полуденные волны.
Там некогда в горах, сердечной думы полный,
Над морем я влачил задумчивую лень,
Когда на хижины сходила ночи тень —
И дева юная во мгле тебя искала
И именем своим подругам называла.
«In cloudy darkness, the bored crescent-sable / Had sent to our room its grim shine. / Six sets are installed on the white of the table, / And empty of them — only one. We wait — I, my husband and few friends of mine — / For time the New Year to be met. / But, just like a poison, bu...»
«The moon, weary in the pall of cloud, / cast a murky glance at the hill. / The table was laid for six, / and only one place was empty. My husband, myself and my friends / are seeing the new year in. / Why are my fingers covered as with blood? / Why does the wine burn like poison? The h...»
«Oh, if I’ve known, when, in dress of whiteness, / Muse was just coming to my living place, / That to the lyre, stoned in the timeless, / My hands’ warm flesh will be forever pressed. Oh, if I’ve known, when was flying fierce / And playful tempest of my love, the last, / That to the ...»
«Oh, Lord, I can forgive what’s done to me by them, / But better, a wild hawk, I would tear a lamb, / Or, a snake — sting the sleeping in the grasses, / Than to be man, and see what people masses / Do on the earth, and through the noxious shame / To not dare up my eyes to heavens’ pur...»