Sunday I paid a call, precisely at noon,
on the great Symbolist poet.
He received me in his study.
The room was quiet, spacious,
his window looked out on the icy day.
A red frozen sun glimmered distant,
above the blue smoke
rising from countless winter chimneys.
My host regarded me a while in silence.
Far more pentrating than sunbeams
dealing brief and dubious January daylight
was my host’s clear gaze.
His eyes were the kind you never forget.
Cautious, I considered that perhaps it was best
not to meet them directly.
But I’ll remember forever our conversation,
his tall gray building on that Sunday,
the view through his window of the Neva port,
the smoke that rose
from all of St. Petersburg’s stoves.
Я пришла к поэту в гости.
Ровно полдень. Воскресенье.
Тихо в комнате просторной,
А за окнами мороз.
И малиновое солнце
Над лохматым сизым дымом...
Как хозяин молчаливый
Ясно смотрит на меня!
У него глаза такие,
Что запомнить каждый должен;
Мне же лучше, осторожней,
В них и вовсе не глядеть.
Но запомнится беседа,
Дымный полдень, воскресенье
В доме сером и высоком
У морских ворот Невы.