Aquarelle
An apple-tree in Spring shakes me, — to see it grow,
Its branches whitely weighted with unmelting snow.
So might a hunch-backed girl stand, beautiful and dumb,
As trembling, the tree stands, and strikes my genius numb...
It looks into the wide, pale shallows, mirror-clear,
Seeking to shed the dews that stain it like a tear;
And stilled with horror, groans like a rude, rusty cart,
Seeing the dismal hunch mocked by the pool's bright art.
When steely sleep alights upon the silent lake
For the bent apple-tree, as for a sick girl's sake,
I come to offer tenderness the boughs would miss,
I press upon the petal-perfumed tree a kiss.
Then trustingly, with tears, the tree confides her care
To me, and brushes with a touch my back-blown hair.
Her boughs encircle me, her little twigs enlace,
And I lift up my lips to kiss her flowering face.
Акварель
Перу И. И. Ясинского посвящаю
Весенней яблони, в нетающем снегу,
Без содрогания я видеть не могу:
Горбатой девушкой — прекрасной, но немой —
Трепещет дерево, туманя гений мой...
Как будто в зеркало — смотрясь в широкий плес,
Она старается смахнуть росинки слез,
И ужасается, и стонет, как арба,
Вняв отражению зловещего горба.
Когда на озеро слетает сон стальной,
Бываю с яблоней, как с девушкой больной,
И, полный нежности и ласковой тоски,
Благоуханные целую лепестки.
Тогда доверчиво, не сдерживая слез,
Она касается слегка моих волос,
Потом берет меня в ветвистое кольцо, —
И я целую ей цветущее лицо.
«We’re unable to live, for this country’s absurd, / At ten paces’ remove are our voices unheard, / But opinion, when muttered, half-spoken, / Kremlin highlander’s spectre’s awoken. / Podgy fingers he has that are meaty like worms, / But his speech is deliberate, its measure confir...»
«When red October’s dim time-server for us made / A yoke of bloodshed and of malice, / And armoured car, aggressive, then enforced blockade / And loomed an apish gunner, callous — And “Crucify Kerensky!” irate soldier brayed, / And angry mob on cue applauded: / Then Pilate let them...»
«I sing when throat is moist, and soul is dry and cold, / And when my eye is damp, and mind does not dissemble: / How healthy is the wine? And will the wineskins hold? / And what about Colchian’s bloody coursing tremble? / Demure’s my breast, it has no words – it is not bold: / My son...»
«At moment’s blooming I was not then questing, / Cassandra, for your lips, Cassandra, for your eyes, / But we’re December’s solemn wait digesting – / We’re hounded by our memories’ lies. In 1917 in mid-December / We find we’ve lost love and it all; / The people’s will will ...»