To M. Lozinsky
This heavy, amber day — it wouldn’t end!
Grief is impossible, and waiting won’t suffice!
The deer speaks with a silver voice again
In the menagerie about the northern lights.
I, too, believed that there exists cool snow,
A blue font for the needy and unwell,
And the unsteady sleight that runs below
Under ancient distant ringing of the bells.
М. Лозинскому
Он длится без конца — янтарный, тяжкий день!
Как невозможна грусть, как тщетно ожиданье!
И снова голосом серебряным олень
В зверинце говорит о северном сиянье.
И я поверила, что есть прохладные снег
И синяя купель для тех, кто нищ и болен,
И санок маленьких такой неверный бег
Под звоны древние далёких колоколен.
«I’m tired of life in my own land, / The boredom of the fields’ expanses, / I’m going to quit my cabin and / Like tramp or thief I’ll take my chances. I’ll chase the cloudy trails of day / In search of mean accommodation — / With knife in bootleg as I stray / That pal has str...»
«The winter sings — aloud it yells, / The pine tree with its hundred bells / lulls shaggy forest and / around it all the rain-drenched clouds / Are sadly mounting in their crowds / To float to distant land. And in the yard a blizzard spreads / Its lovely silken carpet’s threads, / ...»
«The night is dark, I cannot sleep, / I’ll stroll beside the river. / The lightning there begins to leap / in fizzing girdle’s sliver. On mountain now birch-candles glow / In silver’s moonlit feathers. / So come, my heart, now let us go / To hear the songs of zithers. I’ll feast...»
«Consume yourself with others’ pleas — / I’m left to my devices, thinking / Of glassy smoke of tresses’ tease, / Autumnal weary eyelids blinking. Oh, autumn comes! And it for me / than youth and summer is more precious. / But doubly pleasing you’re to me, / The poet’s thought...»