Over the river the hazes that flow
'Neath the moon in the lonesome night,
They beset me with hate, and they bring me delight
For the stillness thereof and the woe.
Forgotten the beauty of day,
And thro' mist I stealthily pace,
A track scarce beheld, in my travail I trace
And I carry my lonely despair on my way.
Этот зыбкий туман над рекой
В одинокую ночь, при луне, —
Ненавистен он мне, и желанен он мне
Тишиною своей и тоской.
Я забыл про дневную красу,
И во мглу я тихонько вхожу,
Еле видимый след напряжённо слежу,
И печали мои одиноко несу.
«Cold morning: the sun blurs, / Pillar of smoky fire. / And I’m indistinct too / Like a dirty snapshot. Till it gets through the murk, / Shines on the grassy pond / The trees see me poorly / Across from the far bank; A passer-by, recognised / Late, as he’s plunged in haze. / Fro...»
«Still yesterday he met my gaze, / But now his eyes are darting shiftly! / Till birdsong at first light he stayed, — / Now larks are crows, met with hostility! So I am stupid, you are wise, / You live, I lie dumbstricken, numb to you. / O how the woman in me cries: / "O my dear ...»
«You're me in the way. I used to / Wlak so, without looking up. / Stop, passerby! Don't refuse to. / I beg and I pray you — stop! You'll read, as you lay the glowing / Red blossoms on the mound of grass: / Marina. And then more slowly: / The dates — of my birth and death. Yes...»
«The bed of a railway cutting / has tidy sheets. The steel-blue / parallel tracks ruled out / as neatly as staves of music. And over them people are driven / like possessed creatures from Pushkin / whose piteous song has been silenced. / Look, they’re departing, deserting. And yet l...»