Fumbling in black memory you’ll find
Those same long gloves,
A Petersburg night. And the air,
Close and sweet, of some dark box.
And a wind from the gulf. And there,
Between the lines, the cries on-stage,
Blok smiling scornfully at you,
He, the tragic tenor of his age.
И в памяти чёрной пошарив, найдёшь
До самого локтя перчатки,
И ночь Петербурга. И в сумраке лож
Тот запах и душный и сладкий.
И ветер с залива. А там, между строк,
Минуя и ахи и охи,
Тебе улыбнётся презрительно Блок —
Трагический тенор эпохи.
«I love you, though I rage at it, / Though it is shame and toil misguided, / And to my folly self-derided / Here at your feet I will admit! / It ill befits my years, my station, / Good sense has long been overdue! / And yet, by every indication / Love's plague has stricken me anew: / ...»
«Oh, I love you, I'm mad with rage, / Albeit it's shame and hopeless trouble, / And I confess my foolish ruffles, / I'm sitting near you, like page. / It doesn't suit me, frankly speaking, / It's time I have to be more keen, / I recognize all sings of fleeting / Disease of soul. Love, I...»
«Dreams, dreams, / Where is your sweetness? / Where, O where / The joy of night? / It disappeared / My happy dream, / And now alone / In deep darkness / I am awakened. / A silent night / Surrounds my bed. / Suddenly cold, / Instantly gone, / Lost in a crowd, / My dreams of...»
«Gift haphazard, unavailing, / Life, why wert thou given to me? / Why art thou to death unfailing / Sentencing by dark destiny? / / Who in harsh despotic fashion / Once from Nothing called me out, / Filled my soul with burning passion / Vexed and shook my mind with doubt? / / I ...»