Oh, moonlit, melting distances!
Oh, dark, snowy road! my
Tired soul is aching and
Will not let me fall asleep.
Across the stunted sweet peas.
Across the dead mignonette.
By means of square windows
I converse with the moon.
Humbly my thought-pilgrim
Has folded her two wings.
But not with entreaty is
Her brow’s repose misted.
“Do you remember those
Softly-blowing spring
Mornings, and how thin
Was her muslin veil?
Do you remember the silver-leafed
One among the hollyhock streaks.
When you did not dare remove
The fragrant veil from her hair?
And how you were worn out with
Anguish, so that you did not
Even know later whether her hair
Was tied in a bun, or twisted?”
— Be silent, remembrance,
Oh, my breast, do not ache! She
Was more desired by me because
Of the mystery and the moon.
For the silver-leafed enchantment
Of tulips on her veil, I will stand
Through a hundred liturgies,
I will exhaust myself in Lent!
“And do you know that she is here?”
— Is it possible, for so many years?
“Look: wrapped in her veil...
Do you recognize the narrow footprints?
Not divined so passionately,
In the living veil, like
Smoke, she is in the waves
Of incense above your cowl.”
— She... but only with little
Horns, with a quivering beard —
Across the stunted sweet peas,
Across the dead mignonette...
О, дали лунно-талые,
О, темно-снежный путь,
Болит душа усталая
И не дает заснуть.
За чахлыми горошками,
За мертвой резедой
Квадратными окошками
Беседую с луной.
Смиренно дума-странница
Сложила два крыла,
Но не мольбой туманится
Покой ее чела.
«Ты помнишь тиховейные
Те вешние утра,
И как ее кисейная
Тонка была чадра.
Ты помнишь сребролистую
Из мальвовых полос,
Как ты чадру душистую
Не смел ей снять с волос?
И как тоской измученный,
Так и не знал потом —
Узлом ли были скручены
Они или жгутом?»
— Молчи, воспоминание,
О грудь моя, не ной!
Она была желаннее
Мне тайной и луной.
За чару ж сребролистую
Тюльпанов на фате
Я сто обеден выстою,
Я изнурюсь в посте!
«А знаешь ли, что тут она?»
— Возможно ль, столько лет?
«Гляди — фатой окутана…
Узнал ты узкий след?
Так страстно не разгадана,
В чадре живой, как дым,
Она на волнах ладана
Над куколем твоим».
— Она… да только с рожками,
С трясучей бородой —
За чахлыми горошками,
За мертвой резедой…
«Springtime doesn’t always resemble joy. / And the sand is yellow not because of the sunlight. / Your weather-beaten skin exuded / The rays of buckwheat-colored fuzz. Near the sky-blue watering hole / Over the fields of prickly orache / We swore that we shall be two / And will never ev...»
«To Klyuev Now my love is not what it used to be. / Oh, I know, you are grieving, you are grieving / That the broom of the moon / Didn’t splash around the puddles of verses. Feeling sad and rejoicing at the star / That falls down onto your eyebrows / You have given the cabin a heart thr...»
«There’s crazy happiness in friendship. / And the convulsion of wild passions — / The fire melts the body down / As if it were a stearine candle. Oh my beloved! give me your hands — / I’m not used to doing it any other way — / I want to wash them at this time of parting / With ...»
«You loose your darling only once, / And never find his trace on planet. / And he was so close before, / But, he had left, and darkness settles. And even if he left at day, / This does not matter any longer. / Let’s get him back, before too late, / Before he reached his final road. Y...»