Such days may meet you just before the springtime:
Beneath the snow the meadow lies in peace;
The treetops wobble with a dainty rhythm;
Benevolent and balmy is the breeze.
And you can feel the lightness in your body,
And you do not quite recognize your home,
And eagerly you find yourself intoning
That song you thought you’d tired of long ago.
Н. Г. Чулковой
Перед весной бывают дни такие:
Под плотным снегом отдыхает луг,
Шумят деревья весело-сухие,
И тёплый ветер нежен и упруг.
И лёгкости своей дивится тело,
И дома своего не узнаёшь,
А песню ту, что прежде надоела,
Как новую, с волнением поёшь.
«Meditations have words that are soundless; / How I love to seek them in the silence! / It is necessary only that, / black and lifeless, / Night should forget itself more fully, / Night should forget itself faster / Among its spar...»
«Dors, dors, mon enfant! Don’t disturb him in the dim early hours, / Warm his sleepiness with a kiss... / But yourself-all shivering, rise: You / Alone, you are ruling... But faster! / For you I animated a dream, / And its minutes are numbered... / . . . . . / ...»
«A birch tree lived in the park’s scanty brushwood, / As dark and dry as dejection... / In a May noon there a girl took off her hat. / And her plait fell loose. Her dear one / Completed the patterned open-work / By laughingly hanging the floral / Hat on a branch of the birch. / . . . ...»
«. . . . . . . . . . . . . / And all night there hazes meandered across the moon, / And all night someone pitifully sensitive dozed / On the seat there, his derby hat pulled down low. / . . . . . . . . . . . . . / And towards daybreak, in the milky fog / There was hanging on the birch a /...»