Striking clock welcomes autumn to town:
This year notably heavy and hard,
Fallen fruit hits the ground, and the count
Is the number of fruit in the yard.
With this music, important and clear,
Who repeats that the clock must still go?
The old garden performs with no fear
Looking strangely indifferent though.
Nature’s downcast mood looking tender,
Love and kinship get easy to see.
As if you were no random bystander,
But the culprit of its jubilee.
Бьют часы, возвестившие осень:
тяжелее, чем в прошлом году,
ударяется яблоко оземь —
столько раз, сколько яблок в саду.
Этой музыкой, внятной и важной,
кто твердит, что часы не стоят?
Совершает поступок отважный,
но как будто бездействует сад.
Всё заметней в природе печальной
выраженье любви и родства,
словно ты — не свидетель случайный,
а виновник ее торжества.
«And Pushkin's exile had begun right here, / And Lermontov's expulsion had been "canceled." / There is the easy grasses' scent on highland. / And only once it chanced to me to see it — / Near the lake, where shades of plane-trees hover, / In that doom hour before the evening thrusts, — ...»
«To V. A. Komarovsky Oh, what the unconventional words / April’s last days brought to me here. / You knew that in my heart and thoughts, / Is left that Holy Week of fear. I was not hearing the knells, / Deploring in the azure-river, / But the bronze laugh – for seven days – / Or c...»
«(From "The Moon in Zenith") A. K. Of the pearl’s light and agate’s clouds / Of the such fairly smoked glass, / By slopes of so sudden mounds, / She sailed such solemnly in skies — / As if the Moon Sonata’s sounds / Had cut our roadway at once.»
«As a white stone in the well's cool deepness, / There lays in me one wonderful remembrance. / I am not able and don't want to miss this: / It is my torture and my utter gladness. I think, that he whose look will be directed / Into my eyes, at once will see it whole. / He will become more ...»