The quiet April day has sent me
What an unusual, strange missive.
You knew that passionately in me
The scary week is still alive.
I did not hear those ringing bells
That swam along in glazier clear.
For seven days sounded copper laugh
Or poured from eyes a silver tear.
And I, then having closed my face
As for eternal parting's moment,
Lay down and waited for her grace
That was not known yet as torment.
В. А. Комаровскому
Какие странные слова
Принес мне тихий день апреля.
Ты знал, во мне еще жива
Страстная страшная неделя.
Я не слыхала звонов тех,
Что плавали в лазури чистой.
Семь дней звучал то медный смех,
То плач струился серебристый.
А я, закрыв лицо мое,
Как перед вечною разлукой,
Лежала и ждала ее,
Еще не названную мукой.
«As in the day of first creation, / The azure skies are calm again, / As though the world knew not privation, / As though the heart knew naught of pain; / For love and fame my craving passes; / 'Mid silence of the fields at morn / I breathe, as breathe these very grasses... / O'er days ...»
«Quoth nature unto me in tones of stately scorning: / "Begone, and break not in upon my harmony! / I weary of thy tears; mar not with anguished mourning / The calm wherewith my azure nights encompass me. "All have I given thee, — life, youth and freedom given, / But thou in senseless feud...»
«The eventide fondled the earth in farewell, / And in its suspense not a leaf dared to sway; / The creak of a cart far away rose and fell, / Stars marshalled aquiver in silent array. Clear-blue is the sky, — deep and strange is its guise; / But look not upon it with glances that crave, / ...»
«Not bloodshed, nor ills we engender, / Could yet fling a mantle of gloom / On the heavenly palace of splendour, / Or on earth with the lure of its bloom. As of old, we are tenderly ravished / By valleys and blossoms and rills; / Unchanging, the starlight is lavished, / And the tune that...»