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.
«The pain appeared to be relentless: / The night was burning low outside; / She wrung her arms like she was senseless, / And they would shimmer in the light. / The meaningless life, nearly ending, / Continued to torture and scold; / As thought a ghost that was ascending, / The day revea...»
«I’m nailed to the tavern counter. / I’m drunk already, but not through. / The happiness that I’ve encountered / The troika took into the blue... It flew off in the sleigh, and drowned / In snows of time, beyond the sky... / And silver haze, raised from the ground, / Just whipped m...»
«You’re like a temple, tall and white. / You’re pure and bright like virgin snow, / I don’t believe this lengthy night / And hopeless evenings, full of woe. My soul, itself, is desecrated, / And I won’t trust it anymore. / Perhaps, a traveler belated, — / I’ll knock against y...»
«I’ll never forget it (did it happen or not, / This evening): The setting sun’s blaze / Drew open the sky and burned it, red hot, / And the streetlamps shone — in its rays. / I sat by the window and leaned on the pane. / Distant bows sang something of love. / I sent you a black rose...»