From the archangel height of the seat
To do evangelic deeds.
River burns, dark for miles far hence.
O distance! Distance! Distance!
In piercing straightness of the lashes of the eye
With a firestorm onto the birds to fly.
The hooves! The wings! Bound up tight!
O height! Height! Height!
To open eyes like jaw! Like gear
Beyond clouds to disappear!
And not to come to wits — to fall and die:
O desire! Desire! Desire!
С архангельской высоты седла
Евангельские творить дела.
Река сгорает, верста смугла.
— О даль! Даль! Даль!
В пронзающей прямизне ресниц
Пожарищем налетать на птиц.
Копыта! Крылья! Сплелись! Свились!
О высь! Высь! Высь!
В заоблачье исчезать как снасть!
Двуочие разевать как пасть!
И не опомнившись — мёртвым пасть:
О страсть! — Страсть! — Страсть!
«An even, hazy hum runs through the glade, / The rustling leaves to laze and drowse incline . . . / The roosters faraway in sun-specked shade, / Their vernal tidings sing, in crows benign. A quiet, hazy hum runs through the glade . . . / To succor me and send my soul repose, / I lie midst ...»
«Embroidered all in stars, my sail / Stands tall and white, both taut and frail; / Between the stars there glows the Face / Of Mother Mary, full of grace. What do I care if shores and sphere / Are fading, soon to disappear! / My soul’s replete, my soul’s austere, / And horns of fresh...»
«A lone white sail that glistens, gleams, / On seascape haze cerulean blue. / What distant realms attract his dreams? / In dear homeland what’s left to rue? The billows surge, the winds are shrieking, / The creaking mast writhes in distress, / Alas, not happiness he’s seeking, / Nor ...»
«(Mosaic in a Moscow Cathedral) Thy face flushed red ‘gainst Batu’s fires, / That gruesome glower in eyes gone dead, / The rust-gold wings where faith respires / In sacred trepidation spread. Before thy stare in the Time of the Dread / Passed fools in skufia, tattered, worn, / Forever...»