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.
«There's the silly elation, / The garden the windows look on! / Soundless sunset reflection / Swims in the pool, like a swan. / / Greetings, golden serenity, / Shadows of trees, black as tar! / Crows on the roof, in sincerity, / Hold vespers in praise of the star. / / Timidly, ...»
«You were crying on a quiet night, / Those tears in your eyes you weren't hiding, / I was so sad and so depressed inside, / And yet we couldn't overcome misunderstanding. / / Now you are gone, I'm here, on my own, / My dreams have faded, losing tint and colour, / You left me, and agai...»
«Lovely night, I will never retrieve it, / And I won't see my sweet precious love. / And the nightingale's song, I won't hear it, / Happy song that it sang in the grove! / / That sweet night is now gone irrevocably, / You can't tell it: please come back and wait. / Autumn weather ha...»
«I do not regret, and I do not shed tears, / All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass. / Turning gold, I'm fading, it appears, / I will not be young again, alas. / / Having got to know the touch of coolness / I will not feel, as before, so good. / And the land of birch trees, - oh my ...»