They wiped your slate
With snow, you’re not alive.
Bayonets twenty-eight
And bullet-holes five.
It’s a bitter present,
Love, but I’ve sewed it.
Russia, an old peasant
Killing his meat.
Не бывать тебе в живых,
Со снегу не встать.
Двадцать восемь штыковых,
Огнестрельных пять.
Горькую обновушку
Другу шила я.
Любит, любит кровушку
Русская земля.
«I was in love with you, but, may be, dear, / Love didn't die away inside of me. / I don't want to grieve you, I'm sincere, / But I was tormented by jealousy. / Oh, I admired you without hopes. / Love wouldn't worry, I swear by God, / And nobody would adore so, / Oh, so sincerely, as I ...»
«I loved Thou... Yet the love, may be, / Have died out in my soul not all, / But I decided not to worry Thee, / I want to sadden Thee with nothing. / I loved Thou soundlessly, hopelessly, / I was parched some time with the timidity, / Some time with the jealousy, / I love Thou so unaffe...»
«What means my name to you?.. 'Twil die / As does the melancholy rumour / Of distant waves, or, of a summer, / The forest's hushed nocturnal sigh. Found on a fading album page, / Dim will it seem and enigmatic, / Like words traced on a tomb, a relic / Of some long dead and vanished age. ...»
«What's in my name? It's soulless, / It shall expire, like the dismal roar / Of waves that hit the distant shore, — / Like nighttime noises in the forest! / Upon the memo sheet, in grief, / Its imprint in the stillborn gloom, / Much like the writing on the tomb, / In foreign language ...»