Along that road where brave Donskoi
once led his mighty host to war,
where the wind's mindful of the foe,
the moon's a crescent of yellow,
I walked as if in ocean deep...
The sweet briar so perfumed the air
as if 't were speech itself so rare;
and I was apt at last to meet
the ninth and fatal wave of fate.
По той дороге, где Донской
Вел рать великую когда-то,
Где ветер помнит супостата,
Где месяц желтый и рогатый, —
Я шла, как в глубине морской...
Шиповник так благоухал,
Что даже превратился в слово,
И встретить я была готова
Моей судьбы девятый вал.
«Orioles are in the woods, and vowels' length / In tonic verses is the single measure known. / But only once a year does nature know in strength / Duration in her meter, as in Homer's own. Caesura-like's the yawning of that day's expanse, / Ease and a labored lengthiness from morning on. / ...»
«Night, square, apothecary, lantern, / Its meaningless and pallid light. / Return a half a lifetime after – / All will remain. A scapeless rite. Then die, then have a new beginning, / And all will turn the same as ere: / Night, rippled water's frigid grinning, / Apothecary, lantern, s...»
«When learning of the tolls of war, / Of yet another battle victim, / 'Tis not his wife, nor comrades, nor / The very hero whom I pity... / Alas! Time will console the wife, / Fraternities – forget their member. / But for as long as 'tis alive, / One soul will constantly remember. / ...»
«A silver sail, the ocean loner, / Is lurking in the azure mist. / What has she lost in foreign corners? / What in her homeland did she miss? Her mast is clattering and bending / Midst whistling wind and raging wave. / Alas, she seeks no happy ending, / Nor runs from happiness away. ...»