The candid psalm of Silence rises whitely burning,
The icy wastes are lit with sunset's radiant yearning.
The drowsy elements in yawning vistas freeze,
And voiceless are the argent Polar liturgies.
Above the sea of whiteness, crimson curtains falling;
No fields or forests here, clear crystal shines appalling.
White altars stretch beneath the changeless icy skies,
A prayer, not suppliant, a psalm, not voiced, — arise.
Псалом Безмолвия свершается сгорая,
Горит закатами пустыня ледяная.
Разъявшаяся ширь загрезивших стихий,
Безгласность ясная Полярных Литургий.
Над морем Белизны багряная завеса,
Здесь царство хрусталей, здесь нет полей и леса.
Ряд белых алтарей, глядящих в Небо, льдов,
Всходящая мольба, без просьб, Псалом, без слов.
«Let's sit down here, my dearest, / Look and see how much I care. / I will listen to the tempest / Under your submissive stare. / / All this golden vegetation / And this fair lock of hair, — / They have come just like salvation / Of the loafer free of care. / / Long ago I ...»
«Don't you look at me so reproachfully. / I do not bear malice to you, / But I like your appearance awfully / And your seeming modesty, too / / Yes, you seem to be openhearted, / And I'd rather be glad to see / How a fox pretending departed / Catches crows like you want to catch ...»
«White and dishevelled, she looks outrageous, / Rushing about, brisk and courageous. / / Dark is the night, it is scared to death, and / Clouds, like kerchiefs, have covered the crescent. / / Wind, letting out hysterical hoots, / Whirls like a shot to the back of the woods. / / ...»
«Silver bluebell, are you singing, / Or, perchance, my heart is dreaming? / Light from rosy icon flashes / Falling on my golden lashes. / / Though I'm not that gentle infant / in the flapping splash of pigeons, / Yet my dreams are sweet and distant, / Somewhere in the woodland regio...»