I love my land, but with a queer passion,
My mind isn't able to absorb it, yet!
Nor glory, purchased by the bloody actions,
Nor peace, in proud confidence inlaid,
Nor sacred sagas of the days of yore
Will stir my pleasant fancies any more.
But I do love — and I don't know why —
Her endless plains' indifference and silence,
Her endless forests' ever swaying wildness,
Her rivers' floods which, like the sea, are wide.
I love to gallop in a cart on roads,
And peering slowly through darkness of the nights,
And idly dreaming of the night abodes,
To meet the solemn hamlets' twinkling lights.
I love the smell of the burnt-out stubble,
The wagons, sleeping in the steppe,
And gleaming of the birches' marble,
Midst cornfields on the hillocks' steps.
And with a joy, that's little known,
I see a full and stout barn,
A cottage covered with straw,
And shutters that are fairly done.
And in the holly dewy evening,
I'm glad to watch until midnight,
The dances, filled with stamps and whistling,
To murmur of the peasants, tight.
Люблю отчизну я, но странною любовью!
Не победит её рассудок мой.
Ни слава, купленная кровью,
Ни полный гордого доверия покой,
Ни тёмной старины заветные преданья
Не шевеля́т во мне отрадного мечтанья.
Но я люблю — за что, не знаю сам —
Её степей холодное молчанье,
Её лесов безбрежных колыханье,
Разливы рек её, подобные морям;
Просёлочным путём люблю скакать в телеге
И, взором медленным пронзая но́чи тень,
Встречать по сторонам, вздыхая о ночлеге,
Дрожащие огни печальных деревень;
Люблю дымо́к спалённой жни́вы,
В степи́ ночующий обоз
И на холме средь жёлтой нивы
Чету́ белеющих берёз.
С отрадой, многим незнакомой,
Я вижу полное гумно́,
Избу́, покрытую соломой,
С резными ставнями окно;
И в праздник, вечером росистым,
Смотреть до по́лночи готов
На пляску с топаньем и свистом
Под говор пьяных мужичков.
«I — am. You — will be. Between us — store of wisdom. / I drink. You thirsty. Agreement — usellessness. / Us dozens, centuries, hundred thousands years / Separate. — God does not build bridges. Please, Be! — this is my commandment. / Please, Let me pass by, with b'ated breat...»
«In midst of waves, there are the silver beads / And scraped by time paints of the white enamel… / I so like the morns which autumn breeds, / For their caress, so short and so gentle. And I do like the foam on the shore, / When it again is whitening in mire, / And, greedy, I am hiding he...»
«I thought that the heart made of stone, / That it’s fully empty and dead: / Though fire in it had been thrown, / It’s not damaged or just upset. And that’s right: it was not tormented, / If — painful, then only a bit, / But, yet, it is better to end it, / Put out, while you can ...»
«Le silence est l’ame des choses. / Rollinat My life’s burden’s for me light and shone, / I won’t you to be baffled or wound; / And not God, who had thought on a stone — / I do pity the stone he’s found. I do pity the violet, faded — / Just in vain — just forgot among pag...»