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.
«What heavy, dark delirium! / The turbid moonlight on these peaks! / To have touched the violin so many years / And in the light not recognize its strings! Who needs us? Who has lit up / Two yellow faces, both so melancholy... / Then suddenly the bow felt / Someone take them up and someo...»
«It happened in Vallen-Koski1, / The rain descended from somber clouds, / And planks of wood, yellow and sodden, / Plunged over the mournful rocks. After such a cold night we were yawning, / Tears stood in our eyes: / To divert ourselves, for the fourth time, / We threw a doll into the w...»
«Outside, the music is steeped / In such ineffable sadness. / The ice-packed oysters on the dish / Have the sharp, fresh tang of sea. He said to me: "I really am / A true friend!" — and he touched my dress. / How unlike a caress it was, / The touch of those hands. This is how cats or ...»
«August — asters, / August — stars, / August — bunches / Of grapes and ashberry / Rusty — August! Like a child, August / You play with your apple / Good-natured and full of weight. / Like with hand, with your imperial / Name you do caress the heart: / August! — Heart!...»