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.
«On distant place my dreams are set / Where all can hear the cries and sobbing, / To share in alien sorrow’s net / And anguished grieving’s painful throbbing. For there, I’m sure that I can find / Delight in life and exaltation, / And there, escaping fortune’s bind, / I’ll cast...»
«I’m tired of life in my own land, / The boredom of the fields’ expanses, / I’m going to quit my cabin and / Like tramp or thief I’ll take my chances. I’ll chase the cloudy trails of day / In search of mean accommodation — / With knife in bootleg as I stray / That pal has str...»
«The winter sings — aloud it yells, / The pine tree with its hundred bells / lulls shaggy forest and / around it all the rain-drenched clouds / Are sadly mounting in their crowds / To float to distant land. And in the yard a blizzard spreads / Its lovely silken carpet’s threads, / ...»
«The night is dark, I cannot sleep, / I’ll stroll beside the river. / The lightning there begins to leap / in fizzing girdle’s sliver. On mountain now birch-candles glow / In silver’s moonlit feathers. / So come, my heart, now let us go / To hear the songs of zithers. I’ll feast...»