Riveting our eyes
On the blanching east,
Children of sorrow, children of night,
We wait, to see if our prophet shall come.
We are scenting out the unseen,
And, with hope in our hearts,
Dying, we grieve
Over uncreated worlds.
Our speech is daring,
But condemned to die
Are the too early precursors
Of a too tardy spring.
Resurrections of the buried
And the rooster’s song
In the middle of the deep night,
Morning’s cold — they are us.
We are the steps above the abyss,
Children of murk, awaiting the sun:
Once we see the light, as shadows,
We shall perish in its rays.
Устремляя наши очи
На бледнеющий восток,
Дети скорби, дети ночи,
Ждем, придет ли наш пророк.
Мы неведомое чуем,
И, с надеждою в сердцах,
Умирая, мы тоскуем
О несозданных мирах.
Дерзновенны наши речи,
Но на смерть осуждены
Слишком ранние предтечи
Слишком медленной весны.
Погребенных воскресенье
И, среди глубокой тьмы,
Петуха ночное пенье,
Холод утра — это мы.
Наши гимны — наши стоны;
Мы для новой красоты
Нарушаем все законы,
Преступаем все черты.
Мы — соблазн неутоленных,
Мы — посмешище людей,
Искра в пепле оскорбленных
И потухших алтарей.
Мы — над бездною ступени,
Дети мрака, солнца ждем,
Свет увидим и, как тени,
Мы в лучах его умрем.
«When, in the cornfield, yellow waves are rising, / The wood is rustling at the sound of soft wind, / And, in the garden, crimson plums are hiding / In pleasant shade of leaves, so shining ones and green; When, spilled with fragrant dew in calmness of the alley, / In morning of a gold or eve...»
«We stood in the ranks — as a mute crowd, once, / While putting our friend to a ground, / Heard our chaplain's murmur and, by chance, / The roar of a tempest around. / The shakos sparkled over the sacred abode, / Immovable ones in a cloud, / With a...»
«Waves roll in columns on their usual route — / Splashing and humming, they run; / People, too, stride in a lousy crowd — / Every one trails everyone. / Waves favor cold of their slavery more / Than heat of midday sunny rays, / People take care of their souls...»
«Enough of sparing shameful sin! / Are, truly, blackguards' shields — the crowns? / Let fools adore them herein, / Let t'other lyre pour them sounds. / But, you, Bard, stop singing forthwith, / A golden wreath is not your wreath. While living from your land apart / Be proud as with lif...»