One person said: «One life is not enough»
Another said, «The goal we can't handle»
A woman, habitually and dull,
Not listening, has rocked the cradle.
The fading ropes creaked so much,
Fell into silence — more gently every time! —
As if the angels sang for her from heaven
And talked about love.
Один сказал: «Нам этой жизни мало»,
Другой сказал: «Недостижима цель»,
А женщина привычно и устало,
Не слушая, качала колыбель.
И стертые веревки так скрипели,
Так умолкали — каждый раз нежнее! —
Как будто ангелы ей с неба пели
И о любви беседовали с ней.
«An even, hazy hum runs through the glade, / The rustling leaves to laze and drowse incline . . . / The roosters faraway in sun-specked shade, / Their vernal tidings sing, in crows benign. A quiet, hazy hum runs through the glade . . . / To succor me and send my soul repose, / I lie midst ...»
«Embroidered all in stars, my sail / Stands tall and white, both taut and frail; / Between the stars there glows the Face / Of Mother Mary, full of grace. What do I care if shores and sphere / Are fading, soon to disappear! / My soul’s replete, my soul’s austere, / And horns of fresh...»
«A lone white sail that glistens, gleams, / On seascape haze cerulean blue. / What distant realms attract his dreams? / In dear homeland what’s left to rue? The billows surge, the winds are shrieking, / The creaking mast writhes in distress, / Alas, not happiness he’s seeking, / Nor ...»
«(Mosaic in a Moscow Cathedral) Thy face flushed red ‘gainst Batu’s fires, / That gruesome glower in eyes gone dead, / The rust-gold wings where faith respires / In sacred trepidation spread. Before thy stare in the Time of the Dread / Passed fools in skufia, tattered, worn, / Forever...»