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.
«Up out of an evil clinging pool / I grew, whispering like a reed, / Breathing the forbidden life / Passionately, languidly and tenderly. And I bend over back into the cold refuge of the swamp, / Marked by no-one, / Met by the welcoming rustle / Of the brief autumnal moments. I'm happy...»
«The dull air is moist and resounding; / In the forest it is good and no danger. / Once again I will bear obediently / My light cross of solitary walks. And once again a reproach to my heartless fatherland / Will fly up like a wild duck, / It is a gloomy life I take part in / Where every...»
«O let me go, Voronezh, O return me: / You will drop me, Voronezh, or neglect me, / You will let fall me down or put me back, — / Voronezh — whim, Voronezh — raven, knife...»
«"Octets" I. I love the uprise of a texture, / To see after two, three or some / Air gasps, when there will be a gesture, / And deep straightening breath then will come. / 5 And space, like a child, half awoken / Chalks arcs with the sail of the yacht, — / The shapes so untied a...»