With a passion I detest the saintly —
Their scrupulous and tortured concerns
And shallow thoughts are for themselves;
Themselves alone exclusively they save.
They fear exclusively for their souls,
In terror of their dreams' gaping abyss
And of that ancient poisoner the Worm
They execute without guilty conscience.
I would have hated heaven just as well,
Among those shades with meekly smiles,
Where the eternal holiday, forever May,
Proceeds on its measured, pacing way.
I have no wish to live in Paradise
While executing the Serpent's wiles.
From childhood years I've loved the Asp
And am amazed by it as by a masterpiece.
I have no wish to live in Paradise
Among dullards writhing in ecstasy.
I'm dying, I'm destroyed, am killed — I sing,
The mind-deprived demon of dreams lyrical.
Я ненавижу всех святых,
Они заботятся мучительно
О жалких помыслах своих,
Себя спасают исключительно.
За душу страшно им свою,
Им страшны пропасти мечтания,
И ядовитую Змею
Они казнят без сострадания.
Мне ненавистен был бы Рай
Среди теней с улыбкой кроткою,
Где вечный праздник, вечный май
Идёт размеренной походкою.
Я не хотел бы жить в Раю,
Казня находчивость змеиную,
От детских дней люблю Змею,
И ей любуюсь, как картиною.
Я не хотел бы жить в Раю,
Меж тупоумцев экстатических,
Я гибну, гибну, — и пою,
Безумный демон снов лирических.
«When from thine error, dark, degrading, / With words of fiery persuading, / I drew thy fallen spirit out; / And thou, thy hands in anguish wringing, / Didst curse, filled with a torment stinging, / The sin that compassed thee about; / When thou, thy conscience dilatory / Chastisin...»
«Yesterday at six / I stopped by Hay Square; / They were whipping a woman, / A young peasant, there. Not a sound from her breast, / Just the lash, playing, whistled... / And I said to my Muse: / "Look! It's your sister!"»
«What a night! How pure the air, / How silvery the slumbering leaf, / How black the shadow of the bankside willows, / How serenely the bay sleeps, / How still it is — nowhere a wave's sigh — / How full the breast is with silence! Midnight light, you're the same as day: / Except the ...»
«Like a bright sun a bonfire flares up in the forest, / And, contracting, the juniper creaks; / Like a crowded choir of drunken giants, / The fir-grove, reddened, sways. I forgot to think about the cold night, — / I was warmed to the very bone and heart; / My troubles wavered then vanish...»