After plodding year after year
through towns in an alien land,
we have ground enough to despair —
and despair is where we must end.
For despair is our final refuge —
as if, midwinter, we had come
from Vespers in a nearby church,
through Russian snow, to our home.
За столько лет такого маянья
По городам чужой земли
Есть от чего прийти в отчаянье,
И мы в отчаянье пришли.
— В отчаянье, в приют последний,
Как будто мы пришли зимой
С вечерни в церковке соседней,
По снегу русскому, домой.
«I came up to the forest of pines, / My path was long, the sun beat down. / Pulling the doorway curtains aside, / He, gray-haired and humble, came out. The seer gazed at me and zealously, / He uttered: “Bride of Christ! / For the prosperous, feel no jealousy, / For your place is up in ...»
«Thus others to the wounded crane / Call, “Kurlee, kurlee!” humbly. / As the autumnal fields remain / At once both, warm and crumbly… Thus, for me, ailing, a call resounds, / The golden wings are beating / Somewhere from the dense low clouds / And from the thickets, pleading: “I...»
«In the churchyard, I’ll sleep soundly / Underneath the slab of oak, / And my darling, you will run to me / For a Sunday morning talk — / Cross the stream and there you are, / Leaving grown-ups at a loss, / And sharp-sighted, from afar, / You will recognize my cross. / And I know ...»
«Your spirit, by your arrogance obscured, / Won’t let you see the sunlight in the world, / You say our faith is but a dream’s allure, / This capital — a mere mirage of old. You say — my country’s sinful, all the same, / And I say that your country’s simply godless. / And even ...»