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.
«Amidst the throes of mortal daring, / I know: Black Angel shall one day / Show from the dark to scream, unsparing, / That our salvation has no way. But, diffident and simple-minded / And as a holy message fair, / White Angel shall appear behind it / To whisper softly: hope is there.»
«Let us acclaim, applause, and sing each other praises. / No need to be too shy of using lofty phrases. / Let’s generously show each other recognition — / These are the precious times when love fulfills its mission. Let’s genuinely grieve and cry sincerely, whether / We do so taking tu...»
«As Moscow’s left behind, the peasant spirit’s cleaner; / The water has more blue; the sky is almost close. / With rare devotion sounds the forest concertina; / The player’s forelock drops to touch the low-pitch rows. His fingers dance in line, move fleetly taking chances, / And midst ...»
«Pencil’s wish is plainly accurate: / All it wants to know is truth. / Truth, eternal and immaculate, / Is the calling it pursues, Built as if to function lastingly, / Helped by neither drug nor graft, / Proper as a gent, and masterly / As an expert in one's craft. Profit’s hand wil...»