to V. V. Goltsev
Not long ago the rain walked through this clearing
Like a surveyor. Now with tinsel bait
The lily of the valley's leaves are weighted.
And water got into the mullein's ears.
These are the frigid fir trees' quondam nurslings,
Their ear lobes stretched with dew; they shun the day.
And grow apart, single and solitary.
Even their odors separately disbursed.
When it is teatime in the summer villas,
The fog fills the mosquito's sail, and night.
Plucking the strings of a guitar but lightly.
Stands among pansies in a mistlike milk.
Then with nocturnal violet all is scented.
Faces and years. And thoughts. Every event
That from the thievish past can be commanded
And in the future taken from Fate’s hand.
В. В. Гольцеву
Недавно этой просекой лесной
Прошелся дождь, как землемер и метчик.
Лист ландыша отяжелен блесной,
Вода забилась в уши царских свечек.
Взлелеяны холодным сосняком,
Они росой оттягивают мочки,
Не любят дня, растут особняком
И даже запах льют поодиночке.
Когда на дачах пьют вечерний чай,
Туман вздувает паруса комарьи,
И ночь, гитарой брякнув невзначай,
Молочной мглой стоит в иван-да-марье.
Тогда ночной фиалкой пахнет всё:
Лета и лица. Мысли. Каждый случай,
Который в прошлом может быть спасен
И в будущем из рук судьбы получен.
«1 Such voices can be, / That you're silent, don't repeat them, / So that wonders you foresee. / There are also giant eyes / The color of the sea Now he stands in front of you: / Look at forehead and at blood / And compare him with you! / The decrepit blood, / Tiredness turned blue....»
«2 Like seaweed, like branches of willows / Of Malmazonia are your limbs, / Thus you did lie in sprays of sea foam / And absent-mindedly transfixed Upon the sweet light-golden melons / Of diamond and aquamarine / The eyes forever semi-open / So blue-and-grayish, bluish-green. The wav...»
«How many people fell in this abyss, / I fathom from afar! / There will be time, and I will vanish too / From earth's exterior. All will be still, that sang and that did struggle, / That glistened and rejoiced: / The greenness of my eyes, the gold of my hair, / And this my tender voice. ...»
«Thus to thirst life: And to be tender / And rabid and noisy, / To be intelligent and charming — / Gorgeous to be! More tender than what are or have been, / Guilt not to know... / This, that in graveyard all are equal, / Angers me so. To be what nobody holds dear — / Like ice beco...»