A graveyard chapel and a crypt,
With wreaths and icons, windows glazed,
And from a frame wound round with crape —
The large clear eyes peer out amazed.
The votive candles walls illume,
Through dust on glass the chapel glows.
“In crypt I lie, midsummer, noon?”
A soft voice vents sepulchral woes.
Coiffure coquettish, simple, plain,
Her shoulders draped with mantelet...
The spattered wax on walls and pane,
And crape bows on the wax rosette.
The lamps and wreaths, a scent of rot...
And nothing more but those dear eyes
That startled, joyful, stare at naught
But dregs and lees steeped in demise.
Погост, часовенка над склепом,
Венки, лампадки, образа
И в раме, перевитой крепом —
Большие ясные глаза.
Сквозь пыль на стеклах, жарким светом
Внутри часовенка горит.
«Зачем я в склепе, в полдень, летом?» —
Незримый кто-то говорит.
Кокетливо-проста прическа,
И пелеринка на плечах...
А тут повсюду — капли воска
И банты крепа на свечах,
Венки, лампадки, пахнет тленьем...
И только этот милый взор
Глядит с веселым изумленьем
На этот погребальный вздор.
«Oh, genius of Stratford, return! / Return to your foggy Avon / Where men still are men of grandeur. / Of wisdom — severe and gray. / Return, unexpected as before. / Stride into the world in Brabantine lace, / In an old camisole and high boots / That have been patched on every stage. ...»
«The old man shuffles to the fish market / To buy half a pound of perch. / A mimosa glitters with drops of rain. / The river’s smooth surface gleams. O, these provincial lodgings. / Local voices. The barking of dogs. / Life here consists of food and drink. / A bed. A roof. Tobacco. Vi...»
«You were given an incomprehensible name. / Yon are oblivion. / Or, more accurately, potassium cyanide Is your name. / Georgy Adamovich Oh, how fastidious you once were, / My friends. / You did not drink vodka, could not abide it. / You preferred Nuit St. Georges. Now our daily bread is...»
«In Petersburg m shall meet again / As if we had buried the sun there. / O. Mandelshtam A quarter century of exile has passed / And it has become absurd to hope / The radiant sky over Nice / Has become our native sky for ever. The peaceful, abundant South, / The murmur of waves, the gol...»