Oh, table, on which I write!
I thank you with all my heart:
You’ve given a trunk to me —
With goal a table to be —
But keep being the living trunk! —
With — over my head — your leaf, young,
With fresh bark and hot pitch’s tears,
With roots — till the bottom of Earth!
5
Мой письменный верный стол!
Спасибо за то, что ствол
Отдав мне, чтоб стать — столом,
Остался — живым стволом!
С листвы молодой игрой
Над бровью, с живой корой,
С слезами живой смолы,
С корнями до дна земли!
«In those days when new to me were / Of existence all impressions: — / The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, / The song of nightingale at night; / When the sentiments elevated / Of Freedom, glory and of love, / And of art the inspiration / Stirred deeply so my blood: — / My ...»
«Like a dog on a chain the machine-gun / Barks out from beyond the wood; / Splinters of shrapnel are buzzing / Like bees as they forage for food. And that distant ‘Hurrah’, like the song of / The reapers, might tempt you to say / That this is some peaceful village / At the end of a f...»
«To M. M. Chichagov Like a dog that strains on heavy halter / Rifle yaps across the forest now, / Bee-like, buzzing shrapnel doesn’t falter, / Gathering bright red honey from the bough. In the distance, though, “Hurrah” is sounding / Like the reapers’ singing when they’re done. / ...»
«The machine gun barks behind the thicket / Like a dog upon a heavy chain, / And the shrapnel buzzes like bees, busy, / Bringing bright red honey home again. Far off the hurrahing is like singing / Reapers whose hard daily work is done. / You must say that it’s a peaceful village / As ...»