We aren't in the forest, there is no need for calling —
You know your jokes do not shine...
Why don't you come to lull into quiet
This wounded conscience of mine?
You possess other worries
You have another wife
And, looking into my dry eyes,
St. Petersburg spring has arrived.
With harsh cough and with evening fever
She will punish and she will kill.
Under the smoke on the river
Nieva's ice is no longer still.
Не в лесу мы, довольно аукать, —
Я насмешек таких не люблю…
Что же ты не приходишь баюкать
Уязвленную совесть мою?
У тебя заботы другие,
У тебя другая жена…
И глядит мне в глаза сухие
Петербургская весна.
Трудным кашлем, вечерним жаром
Наградит по заслугам, убьет.
На Неве под млеющим паром
Начинается ледоход.
«I’m waiting... Trill of nightingale is / Rebounding over river’s glaze, / Beneath the moon the grass is spangled, / Upon the cumin fireflies blaze. I’m waiting... Azure are the heavens / And in the stars both large and small / I hear my heart as it is beating — / My members tre...»
«Oh, where I wonder, is she leading — / Oh this, my fate, oh this my fate? / We blunder as this sphere is speeding / And balk at sight of coffin’s plate. We cannot see where moon is shining, / Our crutches falter in the snow, / Our white-eyed souls with glance declining / Upon the la...»
«I love you, O my dagger, damask-sheathed, / My comrade, cold to hand and shining. / By craft of thoughtful Georgian made, who vengeance breathed, / Your blade was sharpened by a free Circassian. A slender lily-hand transferred you into mine / To bring to mind the moment of our parting, / ...»
«When loud cacophony’s defaming, / Although you are of tender years, / And when you find their judgement’s framing / Your loss of honour with their smears; Alone among the frigid rabble, / I take upon myself your pain / And for you with my fruitless gabble / To heedless idol beg agai...»