She came towards me, silent like the moonlit night,
With violet-hooded eyes, like inky night was gazing,
Where soft the gentle dewdrops grass-tipped quivered blazing,
She came towards me – perfectly arrayed, just right,
And soft, she breathed, as the insinuating night.
The secret deepness she had probed with glance’s fleeting,
Where wordless mirror showed my other ego’s trace
And she was like my shadow, I was like her face,
And silent was our desert place’s furtive meeting,
Where burned the boundless constellations’ secret fleeting.
Она пришла ко мне, молчащая, как ночь,
Глядящая, как ночь, фиалками-очами,
Где росы кроткие звездилися лучами,
Она пришла ко мне — такая же точь-в-точь,
Как тиховейная, как вкрадчивая ночь.
Ее единый взгляд проник до глуби тайной,
Где в зеркале немом — мое другое я,
И я — как лик ея, она — как тень моя,
Мы молча смотримся в затон необычайный,
Горящий звездностью, бездонностью и тайной.
«Until the poet’s summoned thus / By great Apollo to be martyred, / Within the world of bustling fuss / He stays immersed and faint-hearted; / His lyre’s silent, hushed and cold, / His soul lies deep in wintry slumber, / Among the humble of the world / He is, for now, perhaps, most ...»
«Wandering the noisy streets, / Entering the crowded church, / Sitting among wild young men, / I am lost in my thoughts. I say to myself: the years will fly, / And however many are here, we shall all / Go down under the eternal vaults. / Someone's hour is already at hand. Gazing at a so...»
«Through the murk the moon is veering, / Ghost-accompanist of night, / On the melancholy clearings / Pouring melancholy light. Runs the troika with its dreary / Toneless jangling sleigh-bell on / Over dismal snow' I'm weary, / Hungry, frozen to the bone. Coachman in a homely fashion's ...»
«Through the misty billows’ fingers / Threads the moon with pallid shade, / On the dismal glades she lingers, / Casts her dismal beams’ parade. Down the listless winter passage / Races troika pulled by hounds, / Tolls the sleigh-bell’s one-note message, / Fills the air with tedious...»