Heart's memory of sun grows fainter.
Sallow is the grass,
A few flakes toss in the wind
Scarcely, scarcely.
The narrow canals no longer flow,
They are frozen over.
Nothing will ever happen here.
Oh, never!
In the bleak sky the willow spreads
Its bare-boned fan.
Maybe I’m better off as I am,
Not as your wife.
Heart’s memory of sun grows fainter.
What’s this? Darkness?
Perhaps! This very night will bring
The winter.
Память о солнце в сердце слабеет.
Желтей трава.
Ветер снежинками ранними веет
Едва-едва.
В узких каналах уже не струится —
Стынет вода.
Здесь никогда ничего не случится, —
О, никогда!
Ива на небе пустом распластала
Веер сквозной.
Может быть, лучше, что я не стала
Вашей женой.
Память о солнце в сердце слабеет.
Что это? Тьма?
Может быть!.. За ночь прийти успеет
Зима.
«From The Paris Epigrams Those who mourn the faith of Esus, / Those who summon into the land of kings: / Gauls, Gauls, call / The outlandish mothers!»
«To N. N. Russov / / He ran. Bid farewell to the guards, / The earth purpled in the forest. / He skulked above the eternal calm, / Slaking ruthless vengeance. / / He skulked, lifeless staff / In cold clenching hand. / He stood on the Volga slopes / And dropped to the dear river....»
«The music clamoured in the garden / With such inexpressible sorrow. / Freshly and sharply with the scent of sea / Smelled the oysters on ice. He said to me: "I am a loyal friend!" / And touched my dress. / So unlike an embrace / Is the touch of these hands. Cats or birds are petted tha...»
«All of us are are revellers here, whores, / How mirthless it is for us to be together! / On the walls, flowers and birds / languish in clouds. You are smoking a black pipe, / So strange are the wisps over it. / I put on a tight dress, / To look even slimmer. Forever forgotten windows: ...»