To I. Glazunov
When Blok consumes my idle hours,
when grieving for his early end,
I don’t recall his verses’ powers,
but bridge and cab and river’s bend.
Above nocturnal voices’ purring
the horseman’s beaten features loom —
the rings beneath those grim eyes stirring
the thought of frockcoat in the gloom.
Towards the light are shadows chasing,
on pavements stars in pieces fall,
those waxen fingers’ interlacing
is somehow higher than the squall.
As prologue on some baffling matter
of substance vague though deeply felt,
in mists begin the cabby’s clatter,
the cobbles, Blok and clouds to melt.
И. Глазунову
Когда я думаю о Блоке,
когда тоскую по нему,
то вспоминаю я не строки,
а мост, пролетку и Неву.
И над ночными голосами
чеканный облик седока —
круги под страшными глазами
и черный очерк сюртука.
Летят навстречу светы, тени,
дробятся звезды в мостовых,
и что-то выше, чем смятенье,
в сплетенье пальцев восковых.
И, как в загадочном прологе,
чья суть смутна и глубока,
в тумане тают стук пролетки,
булыжник, Блок и облака…
«As a white stone in the well's cool deepness, / There lays in me one wonderful remembrance. / I am not able and don't want to miss this: / It is my torture and my utter gladness. I think, that he whose look will be directed / Into my eyes, at once will see it whole. / He will become more ...»
«But there’re, somewhere, the simple life and light, / Warm, gay and absolutely clear… / There, speaks a neighbor through the fences, light, / With a sweet girl, and only bees can hear — / The gentlest talking of this kind. But here we live — the solemn ones and toilsome — / And...»
«(From the "Middle Night Poems") Which a sonata will you be / Hidden by me in — with a care? / How uneasily, for me / Will call you, utterly unfair / Because so close and so good / You were for me, tho’ for a moment… / Your dream — dissolving in a solvent, / Where death —...»
«We know what is now on History’s scales, / What is, in the world, going now. / The hour of courage shew our clock’s hands. / Our courage will not bend its brow. / None fears to die under the bullet’s siege, / None bitters to lose one’s home here, — / And we will preserve you, O...»