What does a woman alone know about mortal time?
O. Mandelstam
Ever the best dressed of all, of all the rosiest and tallest,
Why do you rise up from the depth of murderous years?
And why does memory wave at me ravishingly
With your transparent profile from a carriage window?
How we would bicker — were you angel or bird?
The poet dubbed you “the straw
Through the dark lashes and Daryal2 eyes
A beneficent light fell equally upon all.
O shade! Forgive me, but the clear weather,
Flaubert, insomnia and belated lilacs
Remind me of you — beauty of the thirteenth year —
Of you — and of your cloudless and
Unsettled day... Memory of such a face
Does not suit my genius now. O Shade!
Что знает женщина одна о смертном часе?
О. Мандельштам
Всегда нарядней всех, всех розовей и выше,
Зачем всплываешь ты со дна погибших лет,
И память хищная передо мной колышет
Прозрачный профиль твой за стеклами карет?
Как спорили тогда — ты ангел или птица!
Соломинкой тебя назвал поэт.
Равно на всех сквозь черные ресницы
Дарьяльских глаз струился нежный свет.
О тень! Прости меня, но ясная погода,
Флобер, бессонница и поздняя сирень
Тебя — красавицу тринадцатого года —
И твой безоблачный и равнодушный день
Напомнили... А мне такого рода
Воспоминанья не к лицу. О тень!
«Insomnia. Homer. The sails — stretched out. / I’ve read the catalogue of ships halfway: / This lengthy brood, this train of cranes / That soared from Hellas up into the clouds. A wedge of cranes toward a foreign land — / The heads of kings sprayed by the godly foam — / What’s Tr...»
«Insomnia. Homer. The rows of stretched sails. / I’ve read the catalogue of ships just to the middle: / That endless caravan, that lengthy stream of cranes, / Which long ago rose up above the land of Hellas. It’s like a wedge of cranes towards the distant shores — / The foreheads of th...»
«I stare into the face of the frost, we remain — / It — nowhere bound, I — from nowhere, / And the breathing marvel of the spreading plain / Irons and weaves itself over and over. Meanwhile, the sun squints in starched poverty, / His squint is calm, no longer upset, / The ten-fold f...»
«I happened upon a devillet / with the body of a child. / Thin and scrawny like a gnat; / his face was sharp, and shy, and old. His body trembled in the rain; / his fur was dark and ruffled. / It was a sorry sight; I feared / this devillet might snuff it. “Love! Love!” I hear all ro...»