We are at a small station.
We are forgotten by the night,
By the still, moonlit night.
In a little forest glade...
Delirium-or are we plainly
At a small station and
Forgotten by the night?
You have gone far away.
Tired steam locomotive...
The boards are pale yellow,
Silvery yellow, and
Lifeless, thawing hoar
Frost clings to the ties.
Have you really gone to the
Right spot, tired steam
Engine? Such stillness in
The moonlight, or is this
Only a dream, these
Shadows, these locomotive
Gasps, and, silvered
Over by the pearly moon,
This long black
Station guard with
His useless lantern
On the patterned shadow?
Ding, ding, ding! — and
It’s past, past this
Dream, so irreparably,
So irremediably, not
Sung through to the end.
And ringing somewhere
Scarcely perceptibly.
Мы на полустанке,
Мы забыты ночью,
Тихой лунной ночью,
На лесной полянке…
Бред — или воочью
Мы на полустанке
И забыты ночью?
Далеко зашел ты,
Паровик усталый!
Доски бледно-желты,
Серебристо-желты,
И налип на шпалы
Иней мертво-талый.
Уж туда ль зашел ты,
Паровик усталый?
Тишь-то в лунном свете,
Или только греза
Эти тени, эти
Вздохи паровоза
И, осеребренный
Месяцем жемчужным,
Этот длинный, черный
Сторож станционный
С фонарем ненужным
На тени узорной?
Динь-динь-динь — и мимо,
Мимо грезы этой,
Так невозвратимо,
Так непоправимо
До конца не спетой,
И звенящей где-то
Еле ощутимо.
«Fifteen boys and maybe more, / or feuer than fifteen, maybe, / said to me / in frightened voices: / "Let's go to a movie or the Museum of Fine Arts." / "I haven't time." / Fifteen boys presented me with snowdrops. / Fifteen boys in broken voices / said to me: / "Ill never stop lovi...»
«For how long will you keep in hiding / Behind the fog, ye Russian star, / Or will you stay forever priding / In stark delusions, false, bizarre? / / Could it be true, your shining glory / Would scatter like a shooting star, / When faced with gazes, greedy, gory, / So keen to reach y...»
«In the calm night, in late summer, / How the stars grow blush in heaven! / Under their gloomy light rays / Sleepy wheatfields ripen, heaving... / How their golden waves are shining / In the calmness of the night, / They are drowsy, eerie silent, / Whitened by the bright moon light... /...»
«Nature is a sphinx. / The truer she kills you / with her eternal riddle, / it's more than likely, / for centuries, / the truer she has fooled you.»