«O, my heart is torn apart
Of tenderness ... O, yes, I loved my life
Without measuring, without quenching passion,
— But by the age of thirty, I have no strength enough».
Over a poet, leaning with a smile,
Unknown surgeon then
With lancet will cut his tired chest,
Instead of heart a piece of ice he'll place.
«О, сердце разрывается на части
От нежности... О да, я жизнь любил,
Не меряя, не утоляя страсти,
— Но к тридцати годам нет больше сил».
И, наклоняясь с усмешкой над поэтом,
Ему хирург неведомый тогда
Разрежет грудь усталую ланцетом
И вместо сердца даст осколок льда.
«I don’t cry, nor long for, nor regretting – / Life is short like smoke of blooming trees. / In my fading chiton with ‘golden setting / I will be no longer young like this. You, my heart, will not go on as ever, / For the cold has touched your very core. / And the land of chintz and ...»
«Tell, uncle, it was not a boon / By fire Moscow burnt so soon / Enjoyed by Frenchmen tall? / Fierce fights... or wasn't there any? / There were, great battles, there were many, / For reason Russians, kids and granny, / This glorious day recall! Once was a folk that you...»
«– Hey tell, old man, had we a cause / When Moscow, razed by fire, once was / Given up to Frenchman's blow? / Old-timers talk about some frays, / And they remember well those days! / With cause all Russia fashions lays / About Borodino! / / – Yea, ...»
«I like you well, O trusty dagger mine, / My comrade wrought of cool Damascus steel! / Forged were you by the Georgian with revenge in the mind, / By the Circassian free - for war were you made keen. A lily-white hand it was gave you to me - / You were affection's keepsake, its last gift... ...»