The clouds are white in the blue dome, and the leafy
Tree-tops have receded clearly into the heights, but the
Dust is already gleaming, and the shadows have lengthened.
And phantoms from afar are gliding towards one’s heart.
I do not know whether the tale has been so brief,
Or I have not read its latter half... The
Clouds are extinguished in the pale dome, and
Night is already moving through the black tree-tops...
And both the bench and the person on it have become
Heavier and more dreadful in the stirless twilight.
Don’t move-the carnations will begin to sparkle now,
The airy shrubs will flow together and dissolve, and
The bronze poet, shaking off the weight of his dreaminess,
Will jump down from his pedestal on to the dewy grass.
На синем куполе белеют облака,
И чётко ввысь ушли кудрявые вершины,
Но пыль уж светится, а тени стали длинны,
И к сердцу призраки плывут издалека.
Не знаю, повесть ли была так коротка,
Иль я не дочитал последней половины?..
На бледном куполе погасли облака,
И ночь уже идет сквозь чёрные вершины…
И стали — и скамья и человек на ней
В недвижном сумраке тяжеле и страшней.
Не шевелись — сейчас гвоздики засверкают,
Воздушные кусты сольются и растают,
И бронзовый поэт, стряхнув дремоты гнёт,
С подставки на траву росистую спрыгнёт.
«Oh see the first lily of the valley! / From under the snow it asks only for / The sun’s beams; virgin luxury / In your fresh and fragrant pure odor! Bright as the first ray of spring! / What dreams descend upon it! / How enchantingly you betoken / How wildly spring will soon erupt! F...»
«It sounded above the clear river, / It rang out in the fading meadow, / It swept above the silent grove, / It lit up the opposite shore. Into the distant twilight / The river wound to the west. / Clouds, losing their gold hems, / Drifted like billows of smoke. From the hillock — firs...»
«He arrived back, a blue glacier, / Those nights from Tamara, / And then and again his wings marked / Where whir and nightmare should end. He did not sob, did not bind up / The exposed lash-striped scars. / His slab has survived beyond / The fence of a Georgian church. How strange that ...»
«Later on, there was the loft with hay / And it smelled like a wine cork / While August ran out of days / And weeds took over like the tropics. In the grass, on the sorrel, beads / Of sullen diamonds hung, / Chilling the taste-buds / Reminding of Riesling. September made headlines / D...»