My voice is dumb and all the words,
In vain. So now, go!
I won't be in the right before
Anyone, I know.
Beautiful coward, in this battle
It's not for me to fall!
But, dear youth, I do not fight
For power in this world.
And this the noble-minded verse
Never yourself denies.
You can — because of someone else —
Not see my very eyes,
Not to grow blind upon my flame,
Nor feel the strength in me...
What demon in me you let loose
Into eternity!
But know that there will be a court,
Like arrow taking aim,
When two angelic fiery wings
Over the head will gleam.
Идите же! — Мой голос нем
И тщетны все слова.
Я знаю, что ни перед кем
Не буду я права.
Я знаю: в этой битве пасть
Не мне, прелестный трус!
Но, милый юноша, за власть
Я в мире не борюсь.
И не оспаривает Вас
Высокородный стих.
Вы можете — из-за других —
Моих не видеть глаз,
Не слепнуть на моём огне,
Моих не чуять сил…
Какого демона во мне
Ты в вечность упустил!
Но помните, что будет суд,
Разящий, как стрела,
Когда над головой блеснут
Два пламенных крыла.
«Against the pale-blue enamel / that April makes conceivable, / the branches of birch trees will stand / and gradually ripen to evening. Their pattern is sharp and complete, / that stiffened gauze is fine, / like a drawing that somebody’s neatly / traced out on a plate of china. Some ...»
«No moon but a clock-face. How’s it a sin / that while it dazzles my eyes I examine / the muted stars’ milky light? Poet Batyushkov, son to a parson, / how he’d spout on. “What’s the time?” they’d ask him. / “Eternity”, he replied.»
«Oh, heart’s remembrance! You are, yet, / Mush stronger than sad one of reasons; / And, often in a distant land, / Bewitch me with your even sweetness. / I hear the sound of your word, / I see the blue of eyes, so dear, / I see your golden locks, right here, / Of the hair so negligent...»
«My friend! I have seen the sea's menace / And the vengeful sky's cursed punishment: / The despicable deeds of mortal enemies, / Blare of war, catastrophic conflagrations. / I have seen the multitudes of rich men / Fleeing in nothing but tattered rags, / I've seen the weathered faces of m...»