The squeaking pencils softly roll
for peace and quiet of my soul.
They squeak incessantly, with care,
but give a cry they do not dare.
My soul is burning , getting hot,
but what’s a pencil worth? Yes, what?
Abiding by the rule
it will tranquil my soul.
...One final stroke, — and there it is:
my drawn image, if you please.
I’ve been immortalized...
but I can’t fall and rise;
my temples look unhealthy, dry,
although my forehead is quite high,
I stare with indifference
ahead into the distance..
What shall I call this masterpiece ?
«The Teacher», «Worker» or «Artiste» ?
«Numb Witness of the Era?» —
I’m not a rude believer.
I’m mortal. I am all aflame
while it’s eternal in the frame,
a prize winner, it is...
...but it has got no tears.
Шуршат, шуршат карандаши
за упокой живой души.
Шуршат не нашуршатся,
а вскрикнуть не решатся.
А у меня горит душа,
но что возьмешь с карандаша:
он правил не нарушит
и душу мне потушит.
...Последний штрих, и вот уже
я выполнен в карандаше,
мой фас увековечен...
Но бушевать мне нечем,
и жилка не стучит в висок,
хоть белый лоб мой так высок,
и я гляжу бесстрастно
куда-то все в пространство.
Как будет назван тот портрет?
«Учитель», «Каменщик», «Поэт»,
«Немой свидетель века»?..
Но мне ли верить в это?
Я смертен. Я горю в огне.
Он вечен в рамке на стене
и премией отмечен...
...да плакать ему нечем.
«Outside it is blowing and raining, / And all are asleep long ago; / I look with a sigh through the window / At the ghost of a garden I know. The sky is but darkness, and darkness. / Not a star, not a glimmer of light. / And the old Manor House is so mournful / While it blows and it rain...»
«Through the slush and the ruts of the highway. / By the side of the dam of the stream. / Where the fishermen’s nets are a-drying, / The carriage jogs on, and I dream. I dream, and I look at the highway. / At the sky that is sullen and grey, / At the lake with its shelving reaches, / A...»
«The sun on the steppes is sinking, / And gold is the distant grass. / The convicts’ fetters are clinking / On the dusty road as they pass. They march, with heads closely shaven. / With heavy steps onward go. / Grief on their brows engraven / And doubt in their hearts below. They marc...»
«Storm in the skies in the evening. / Noise of the wrath of the sea; / Storm on the sea, and the thronging / Thoughts that are torture to me; Storm on the sea, and insurgent / Thoughts that are clamorous in me, / Cloud after cloud flying blackly. / Noise of the wrath of the sea.»