I’ve written down the words
That I’ve not dared to speak.
My body’s strangely dumb.
Dully my head beats.
The horn cries have died.
The heart’s still confused.
On the croquet lawn, light
Autumn snowflakes fused.
Let the last leaves rustle!
Let last thoughts torment!
I don’t wish to trouble
Those used to happiness.
I forgive those lips, eyes
Of yours, their cruel jest...
Oh, tomorrow we’ll ride
That first wintry sledge.
Drawing-room candles will glow
More tenderly in the day.
Of conservatory roses,
I’ll bring a whole bouquet.
М. А. Змунчилла
Я написала слова,
Что долго сказать не смела.
Тупо болит голова,
Странно немеет тело.
Смолк отдалённый рожок,
В сердце всё те же загадки,
Лёгкий осенний снежок
Лёг на крокетной площадке.
Листьям последним шуршать!
Мыслям последним томиться!
Я не хотела мешать
Тому, кто привык веселиться.
Милым простила губам
Я их жестокую шутку...
О, вы приедете к нам
Завтра по первопутку.
Свечи в гостинной зажгут,
Днём их мерцанье нежнее,
Целый букет принесут
Роз из оранжереи.
«You were given an incomprehensible name. / Yon are oblivion. / Or, more accurately, potassium cyanide Is your name. / Georgy Adamovich Oh, how fastidious you once were, / My friends. / You did not drink vodka, could not abide it. / You preferred Nuit St. Georges. Now our daily bread is...»
«In Petersburg m shall meet again / As if we had buried the sun there. / O. Mandelshtam A quarter century of exile has passed / And it has become absurd to hope / The radiant sky over Nice / Has become our native sky for ever. The peaceful, abundant South, / The murmur of waves, the gol...»
«Should I tell of all the absolute fools. / Who hold the fate of mankind in their hands? Should I tell of all the scoundrels who / Depart into history crowned with wreaths? Should I — hell! / Under the bridges of Paris it s quiet / And why should I c...»
«Unharnessed, the white horse ambles along. / Where are you going, white horse? / The sun shines, an early spring breeze / Rumples the shirts and handkerchiefs in the garden. I who one day took my leave of Russia / (On a night preceeding an arctic dawn) / Did not turn round, nor cross myse...»