Has my fate really been so altered,
Or is this game truly truly over?
Where are winters, when I fell asleep
In the morning in the sixth hour?
In a new way, severely and calmly,
I now live on the wild shore.
I can no longer pronounce
The tender or idle word.
I can't believe that Christmas-tide's coming.
Touchingly green is this the steppe before
The beaming sun. Like a warm
Wave, licks the tender shore.
When from happiness languid and tired
I was, then of such quiet,
Inexpressibly trembling, I dreamed
And in my imagining this I deemed
The postmortal travels of the soul.
Юнии Анреп
Судьба ли так моя переменилась,
Иль вправду кончена игра?
Где зимы те, когда я спать ложилась
В шестом часу утра?
По-новому, спокойно и сурово,
Живу на диком берегу.
Ни праздного, ни ласкового слова
Уже промолвить не могу.
Не верится, что скоро будут святки.
Степь трогательно зелена.
Сияет солнце. Лижет берег гладкий
Как будто теплая волна.
Когда от счастья томной и усталой
Бывала я, то о такой тиши
С невыразимым трепетом мечтала
И вот таким себе я представляла
Посмертное блуждание души.
«By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered; / On his breast it slept, but, riseing early, / Off it gently rushed across the pearly / Blue of sky, a tiny thing and winged. Still, a trace it left upon the stony / Giant's heart, and plunged in thought and weeping / Slow and tortured tears, he s...»
«Clouds in the skies above, heavenly wanderers, / Long strings of snowy pearls stretched over azure plains! / Exiles like I, you rush farther and farther on, / Leaving my dear North, go distances measureless. What drives you southward? Is't envy that covertly / Prods you or malice whose arro...»
«In noon's heat, in a dale of Dagestan / With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay; / The deep wound still smoked on; my blood / Kept trickling drop by drop away. On the dale's sand alone I lay. The cliffs / Crowded around in ledges steep, / And the sun scorched their tawny tops / And ...»
«Forever you, the unwashed Russia! / The land of slaves, the land of lords: / And you, the blue-uniformed ushers, / And people who worship them as gods. I hope, from your tyrannic hounds / To save me with Caucasian wall: / From their eye that sees through ground, / From their ears that h...»