There 's evil in good and vice versa,
But people are neither that nor this.
They all are right, and even more so,
Not worth a curse, not worth a bliss.
There is no Sweden or Japan,
But only people are around
Who under pale and crippled Sun
Are crawling on the shaky ground.
И в зле добро, и в добром злоба,
Но нет ни добрых, нет ни злых,
И правы все, и правы оба, —
И правоту поет мой стих.
И нет ни шведа, ни японца.
Есть всюду только человек,
Который под недужьем солнца
Живёт свой жалкий полувек.
«I love the fading of an echo after / The furious troika in the forest; / After scintillating, impetuous / Laughter I like a spell of weariness. On a winter morning I love over me the / Lilac-colored outpouring of semi-darkness. / And, where the sun was burning in spring. / Only the pink...»
«The forest is misted in sparklings, / In the shadows faces are changing. / Into the skies’ blue hermitage / Chimings are departing to pray... Chimings, take me! My heart / Is so weak and orphaned... / Dust from the day’s sparkling teases / With the possibility of peace... What does...»
«. . . . . / It has not struck four... but the pale luminary / Has hardly gilded the domes above us, and in the / Faded steppe the river is misty; so softly have the / Clouds been moving above us, and their movement / Concealed so much tenderness (clouds which have / Forgotten the poison ...»
«Only he whose repose is kept secret / Can breathe sweetly... / The curtain over my window / Does not wave. You will come, if you are faithful to dreams; / But are you really that one? / I know the garden is there, the lilacs are / There...»