In the valley the birches are bored.
On the meadows, fog billows and weighs.
Sodden, with horse-dung floored,
The highroad blackens in haze.
Rich on the steppe's sleepy air,
The odor of freshly-baked bread.
Bent to their packs, slowly fare
Two beggars to look for a bed.
Round puddles gleam in the streets.
The fumes of the ovens stun.
Thawing, the bleak earthen seats
Smolder and steam in the sun.
By the corn-bin, dragging his chain,
The sheep-dog yawns on the sill.
Walls smoke with the charcoal stain.
The steppe is foggy and still.
The carefree cock will perform
Day-long for the sap-stirred earth.
In the fields it is drowsy and warm,
In the heart—indolent mirth.
Скучно в лощинах березам,
Туманная муть на полях,
Конским размокшим навозом
В тумане чернеется шлях.
В сонной степной деревушке
Пахучие хлебы пекут.
Медленно две побирушки
По деревушке бредут.
Там, среди улицы, лужи,
Зола и весенняя грязь,
В избах угар, а снаружи
Завалинки тлеют, дымясь.
Жмурясь, сидит у амбара
Овчарка на ржавой цепи.
В избах — темно от угара,
Туманно и тихо — в степи.
Только петух беззаботно
Весну воспевает весь день.
В поле тепло и дремотно,
А в сердце счастливая лень.
«to Valentina Serova In a dream, I saw a wedding / And I think the bride was you. / You the bride and I a beggar / At the porch — it may be true! Let it happen as I dreamed it! / Only promise, as you stand / At the porch, to have the kindness — / Put no alms into my hand!»
«to Valentina Serova With glass a thousand miles thick / Parting has glazed the windows of your flat; / And I look through, as from another world, / But not a sound is audible through that. I see you pass and sit down by the window. / You smile at someone; you get up unheard. / You speak....»
«You get from time to time a man / Who's every woman's silent friend — / A friend without ulterior aim, / A friend on whom she can depend. He's like the lifebelt on the deck / Which hangs and waits, for years unheeded, / Until at last it saves a life, / That final moment when it's need...»
«The sense that love is coming's worse / Than love itself. Love is like war — / You've come together, eye to eye. / You're with her — nothing more in store. The approach of love is like a storm: / You feel a dampness in your pores / But still it's calm — the piano's sound / Can y...»