Nothing but anniversaries, anniversaries...
Our liter reeks like a kitchen!
To judge by it, all Russia
Is teeming with great men:
After their deaths, it’s certain.
Following magnificent empty sanctimonies,
A hundred Pantheons
And a hundred Westminster Abbeys won’t suffice.
Всё юбилеи, юбилеи…
Жизнь наша кухнею разит!
Судя по ним, людьми большими
Россия вся кишмя-кишит;
По смерти их, и это ясно,
Вослед великих пустосвятств,
Не хватит нам ста Пантеонов
И ста Вестминстерских аббатств…
«On hills of Georgia lies the covering of night; / Aragva streams in front of me. / Such sadness and such ease; my melancholy's light, / My melancholy's full of thee, / Of thee, of only thee... No anxiousness, no pain / Unsettles my despondency; / My heart again on fire, it burns and love...»
«On the hills of Georgia lies the darkness of the night, / Aragva murmurs underneath. / I'm sad, yet light, my sorrow's bright, / My sorrow's filled with you. / With you, you only... My melancholy, / Nothing can torment or disturb, / My heart, it burns and loves anew — because / It ca...»
«My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning, / Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning, / A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge / Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge / And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing. / ...»
«Dear doting sweetheart of my childhood, / Companion of my austere fate! / In the lone house deep in the wild wood / How patiently for me you wait. / Alone beside your window sitting / You wait for me and blame the clock, / While, in your wrinkled hands, your knitting / Fitfully falters...»