Cast prostrate, in mourning,
Wingless, self-scorning,
Grief in a gust
Flings us, dust upon dust.
We desire not, we dare not,
We believe not, we care not,
No wisdom has worth.
God, do thou dower us,
Kindle, empower us,
Give of thy mirth.
From the languor that clings
Give us wings! Give us wings!
Wings of thy Spirit.
Ниц простертые, унылые,
Безнадежные, бескрылые,
В покаянии, в слезах,—
Мы лежим во прахе прах,
Мы не смеем, не желаем,
И не верим, и не знаем,
И не любим ничего.
Боже, дай нам избавленья,
Дай свободы и стремленья,
Дай веселья Твоего.
О, спаси нас от бессилья,
Дай нам крылья, дай нам крылья,
Крылья духа Твоего!
«I felt in soul and body, / for the first time in years, / the silence after a blizzard, / the even light of the stars. Should the magi wish to see / their kindness to the end, / they’d bring me sheets of paper / A candle. Matches. And a pen. »
«From a frost-chilled / line of poetry / my anguish will drop / like a ripe berry. Rosehip juice will dye / fine crystals of snow — / and a stranger will smile / on his lonely way. Blending dirty sweat / with the purity of a tear, / he will carefully collect / the tinted crystal...»
«Our tools are primitive / and simple: / a rouble’s worth of paper, / a hurrying pencil, we need no more / to build a castle — / high in the air — / above the world’s bustle. Dante needed nothing else / to build gates / into that Hell hole / founded on ice.»
«They say we plough shallow, / always tripping and slipping, / but it’s hard to plough boldly / on the soil we’ve been given. We plough in a graveyard / just tickling the topsoil, / afraid our blades may turn up / bones of dead people.»