Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accomplished.
Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on my heart?
Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,
One who has taken his pay, alien to unwonted tasks?
Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,
Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods of the hearth?
Миг вожделенный настал: окончен мой труд многолетний.
Что ж непонятная грусть тайно тревожит меня?
Или, свой подвиг свершив, я стою, как подёнщик ненужный,
Плату приявший свою, чуждый работе другой?
Или жаль мне труда, молчаливого спутника ночи,
Друга Авроры златой, друга пенатов святых?
«How dark and heavy’s the delirium’s embrace! / How they’re turbid under moon — the heights! / To have touched Violin for so many years / And not distinguish those Strings in light! Who craves for us? Who, insolent, has set / In flames two faces, yellow and vexed, / And sudden...»
«Don’t you have the strange vision sometimes / (When a dark penetrates in a house) / Of another existence for us, / Where we live in the other life’s phases? There, a shade’s softly pressed to a shade, / And such wonderful minute there hovers, / Where as if, through the beams by eye...»
«Has time come? I’m fully ready. / If we’ve sinned — there’s no a chance… / We — to prisons, they — to gladness… / Give to children — sun and grass! When one’s child — the life’s thread’s thinner, / Days are shorter in that age… / Do not scold a little "sinn...»
«Just below my window / Stands a birch-tree white, / Under snow in winter / Gleaming silver bright. On the fluffy branches / Sparkling in a row / Dangle pretty tassels / Of the purest snow There the birch in silence / Slumbers all day long / And the snow gleams brightly / In the g...»