Her Torch was fiery and scarlet,
He Was thawing and twilight snow: He
Looked at Her and burned away, and
Burned away out of untasted blisses.
The bosom of death opened blackly,
He did not hear the summons:
Live! And the hopeless flame of
Love was left alone in the ether.
And on the bed of the deep pit,
Covered to the ground with a
Foaming chasuble, the lonely Widow
Dreams — and the chill Waters boil...
Ее факел был огнен и ал,
Он был талый и сумрачный снег:
Он глядел на нее и сгорал,
И сгорал от непознанных нег.
Лоно смерти открылось черно —
Он не слышал призыва: «Живи»,
И осталось в эфире одно
Безнадежное пламя любви.
Да на ложе глубокого рва,
Пенной ризой покрыта до пят,
Одинокая грезит вдова —
И холодные воды кипят…
«The land though not mine, / But forever in my memory, / And in the sea, / Tender icy and unsalted water. On the bottom the sand is whiter than chalk, / And the air is drunk, like wine, / And the rosy body of the pine trees / Is naked at the sunset hour. And the sunset itself in the wav...»
«Christ and God! I am longing for a miracle / Now, now, at the beginning of the day / Oh, let me die, until / All my life is like a book for me. You are wise, you won't say strictly: / "Have patience, it is not the time yet" / You gave me yourself — too much! / I am longing at once —...»
«It drizzled, but not even grasses / Would bend within the bag of storm; / Dust only gulped its rain in pellets, / The iron roof — in powder form. The village did not hope for healing. / Deep as a swoon the poppies yearned / Among the rye in inflammation, / And God in fever tossed and ...»
«Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping, / Of February, in sobs and ink, / Write poems, while the slush in thunder / Is burning in the black of spring. Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing / A hired cab will take you where / The town has ended, where the showers ...»