A strange anxiety befell him,
And sweet fear overcame him.
He would stand and gaze heavenwards,
And would neither see the stars, nor the morning,
The youth with the farsighted eye.
Asleep — he saw eagles
Screaming and flocking around him,
This lead him to a wonderful explanation.
And one — the Lord of the Rocks —
Tousled his curls with his beak.
But with tightly closed eyes,
His lips parted — he was asleep.
And did not hear the night visitors
Nor see how it was sharpening its beak
The gold-spotted bird.
Приключилась с ним странная хворь,
И сладчайшая на него нашла оторопь.
Всё стоит и смотрит ввысь,
И не видит ни звёзд, ни зорь
Зорким оком своим — отрок.
А задремлет — к нему орлы
Шумнокрылые слетаются с клёкотом,
И ведут о нём дивный спор.
И один — властелин скалы —
Клювом кудри ему треплет.
Но дремучие очи сомкнув,
Но уста полураскрыв — спит себе.
И не слышит ночных гостей,
И не видит, как зоркий клюв
Златоокая вострит птица.
«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...»