Life goes on, defying common sense.
Old men chatter in the southern sun:
“Moscow ballrooms… The weather in Simbirsk…
The War… Kerensky… We had freedom then…”
Before you know it — forty years in France,
a buzzing in the head, chill in the bones.
“Masonic plot… The Jews, all their infernal…
Ah, you were published? Where? Which journal?”
…In the dull sunshine there is peace and grace.
They wait and wait, but hope it won’t be long
before the old Cyrillic script regains its place,
before that age of gold re-dawns.
Жизнь продолжается рассудку вопреки.
На южном солнышке болтают старики:
— Московские балы… Симбирская погода…
Великая война… Керенская свобода…
И — скоро сорок лет у Франции в гостях.
Жужжанье в черепах и холодок в костях.
— Масонский заговор… Особенно евреи…
Печатались? А где? В каком Гиперборее?
…На мутном солнышке покой и благодать,
Они надеются, уже недолго ждать —
Воскреснет твердый знак, вернутся ять с фитою
И засияет жизнь эпохой золотою.
«Sleep I cannot find, nor light: / Everywhere is dark and slumber, / Only weary tickings number / The slow hours of the night. / Parca, jabbering, woman-fashion, / Sleeping night, without compassion, / Life, who stirs like rustling mice, / Why encage me in thy vise? / Why the whisperi...»
«Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accomplished. / Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on my heart? / Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless, / One who has taken his pay, alien to unwonted tasks? / Is it the work I regret, the silent com...»
«Not by old masters, rich on crowded walls, / My house I ever sought to ornament, / That gaping guests might marvel while they bent / To connoisseurs with condescending drawls. / Amidst slow labors, far from garish halls, / Before one picture I would fain have spent / Eternity: where the ...»
«King of Heavens! Release / My sick soul to its peace! / For the errors of earth / Send oblivion's dearth; / To thy stern paradise / Give my heart strength to rise.»