In different clearness of rays,
In addling amalgam of visions
We always live in world’s things’ reign
With its triad of space division.
And spreading borders of this life,
Or multiplying forms by fable,
To hide your I from not-I’s eyes
You will be never-never able.
This power’s your leading star,
It has your God and nature’s law,
And before it, it’s pale and far —
The Art, belittling things’ great role.
You can not flee from slaving reign
To look for charms of airy smears,
The deepness is not verse’s main,
But just a puzzle which it bears.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
So, love the clearness and rays,
In the aroma – their creation,
And cut bright bowls for the grace
And always integral receptions.
В раздельной чёткости лучей
И в чадной слитности видений
Всегда над нами — власть вещей
С ее триадой измерений.
И грани ль ширишь бытия
Иль формы вымыслом ты множишь,
Но в самом Я от глаз Не Я
Ты никуда уйти не можешь.
Та власть маяк, зовет она,
В ней сочетались бог и тленность,
И перед нею так бледна
Вещей в искусстве прикровенность.
Нет, не уйти от власти их
За волшебством воздушных пятен,
Не глубиною манит стих,
Он лишь как ребус непонятен.
Красой открытого лица
Влекла Орфея пиерида.
Ужель достойны вы певца,
Покровы кукольной Изиды?
Люби раздельность и лучи
В рождённом ими аромате.
Ты чаши яркие точи
Для целокупных восприятий.
«“You are with me once more, Autumn my friend!” / Annensky Let any, who will, still bask in the south / On the paradisal sand, / It’s northerly here — and this year of the north / Autumn will be my friend. I’ll live, in a dream, in a stranger’s house / Where perhaps I have di...»
«So again we triumph! / Again we do not come! / Our speeches silent, / Our words, dumb. / Our eyes that have not met / Again, are lost; / And only tears forget / The grip of frost. / A wild-rose bush near Moscow / Knows something of / This pain that will be called / Immortal lov...»
«Black and enduring seperation / I share equally with you. / Why weep? Give me your hand, / Promise me you will come again. / You and I are like high / Mountains and we can’t move closer. / Just send me word / At midnight sometime through the stars.»
«It is your lynx eyes, Asia, / That spied something in me, / Teased it out, occult / And born of stillness, / Oppessive and difficult / Like the noon heat in Termez. / As though pre-memory’s years / Flowed like lava into the mind... / As if I were drinking my own tears / From a st...»