Ever since St. Agrafena’s day,
He has kept my crimson shawl.
He gloats like King David, enthralled.
His frosty cell has walls of gray,
And no one talks to him at all.
I’ll go to his door and stand in his way,
“Return my shawl to me!” I’ll say.
Со дня Купальницы-Аграфены
Малиновый платок хранит.
Молчит, а ликует, как царь Давид.
В морозной келье белы стены,
И с ним никто не говорит.
Приду и стану на порог,
Скажу: «Отдай мне мой платок!»
«You’ll vanish in the tall grass, toe to head, / You’ll enter the silent house without knocking. / She’ll wrap her arms around you and her braid, / And she’ll say, stately, “Well, hello, king! Look, here is my bower of white roses, / And here a bindweed bloomed yesterday. / Where...»
«I must perform my smoky rite. / Disgraced before me lie prostrate / Fruits of a summer by the sea: / A sard’s twin-hearted strawberry / And the ant’s brother, an agate. But I prefer the rank-and-file / Soldier of the sea gulf, gray, wild, / That no one’s pleased to see.»
«When my mother dear sent me / Off to the army, / Then my kinfolk also came, / Came a-running: "Where are you going to, my lad? / Where you going? / Vanya, Vanya, please don't go / Into the army! "The Red Army has enough / Bayonets. / The Bolshevik...»
«(A narrative poem) Tra - ta - ta - turn! / Tra - ta - ta - turn! / Marching, marching, marching, marching, / Into chains of iron the links are forming, / In a thundering step they go grimly on, / go grimly on, / go on, / go on / To the last, the main redoubt. Main Street is frantic...»