I see: at the window sited,
Mother declines to her child,
And trying to catch his feet idly,
He rose them, putting aside.
His day is the long one and golden,
His nights — like without an end...
And a year — like a wonderful model,
Of the future long years’ train.
With a charm, from the little cats loaned,
He smiles through his sleeping, content...
A mother is always Madonna,
A child — always blessed as a saint!
They’ll later come here from background —
His passion, his fervor and toil,
And where, in the world, might be found,
The word, helping him not to fall?
The old and a child are atoned
With wisdom, but not — an adult:
They live in a light’s sacred zone,
The others — just see their light.
But put in disorderliness earthen,
Be sure: through your passions and pleas,
You’ll see — we are children of Heaven
By His ever merciful knees.
Я вижу, в дворовом окошке
Склонилась к ребенку мать,
А он раскинул ножки,
Хочет их ртом поймать.
Как день ему будет долог,
Ночам - конца словно нет...
А год? это - дивный сколок
Будущих долгих лет.
Вот улыбнулся сонно
С прелестью милых котят...
Ведь всякая мать - Мадонна
И всякий ребенок свят!
Потом настанут сурово
Труды, волненье и страсть,
И где найти тогда слово,
Что не дало бы упасть?
Мудры старики да дети,
Взрослым мудрости нет:
Одни еще будто в свете,
Другие уж видят свет.
Но в сумрачном бездорожьи
Утешься: сквозь страстный плен
Увидишь - мы дети Божьи
У теплых родных колен.
«In the days of my youth she was fond of me, / And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me. / To me with smile she listened; and already gently / Along the openings echoing of the woods / Was playing I with fingers tender: / Both hymns solemn, god-inspired / And peaceful song of Phrygian sh...»
«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. / ...»