To Tamara Karsavina
Your light dance, you are like a song composing —
It told us of glory high —
And on your pale cheeks your blush grows more rosy
And darker and darker your eye
And more and more captives with every minute
Forget their own lives mundane,
And in the sounds of the sacred, in it,
Your supple form bends again.
Тамаре Платоновне Карсавиной
Как песню, слагаешь ты лёгкий танец —
О славе он нам сказал, —
На бледных щеках розовеет румянец,
Темней и темней глаза.
И с каждой минутой всё больше пленных,
Забывших свое бытиё,
И клонится снова в звуках блаженных
Гибкое тело твоё.
«Those, born in the'times quiet and drear / Cannot recall their gloomy trail. / We, sons of desperate Russia's years, / Remember every fine detail. The years of hopes and despair, / Madness and terror! Some ruby sheen, / Of war and freedom bloody flare, / In our eyes is clearly s...»
«We'll be buried and modest grave mounds / Will be soon overgrown with grass, / Nothing but the remote vague sounds / Of the rains there above 'll bother us. No questions, no answers, we got 'em, / And awaken from lazy grave dream / We're aware, if 'tis quiet, then it's autumn, / ...»
«Why, pretty gal, are you hexing about / With eyes and shoulders, in turn? / Thus you'll excite even me, no doubt, / Though, I don't feel concern. Yet, for this dangerous game men stay ready, / Many you will captivate / Until you turn from a passionate lady / Into good ...»
«Snow-clad is the plain, and the moon is white / Covered with a shroud is my country side. / Birches dressed in white are crying, as I see. / Who is dead, I wonder? Is it really me?»