White on the blue, the sail has gone,
to vanish with the breeze;
what does the sailor seek alone
in far-off seas?
His tackle tautens in the stress
of favouring winds astir;
alas, he seeks not happiness,
nor flies from her.
The sun is bright above; below,
the ripples curve and crease;
he, rebel, craves a storm, as though
in storm were peace.
Белеет парус одинокой
В тумане моря голубом!..
Что ищет он в стране далекой?
Что кинул он в краю родном?..
Играют волны — ветер свищет,
И мачта гнется и скрыпит...
Увы! он счастия не ищет,
И не от счастия бежит!
Под ним струя светлей лазури,
Над ним луч солнца золотой...
А он, мятежный, просит бури,
Как будто в бурях есть покой!
«My friend, you'll understand, of course! / Now at this hour of dejection / Like magic, firmly, desperation / Dismays me filling with remorse... / / Why is there so much depression / And pain in my contracted chest? / I don't need lights, and I confess / I'm tired of any congregat...»
«A cheerful bride, she was happy and gay, / But there came death, and she passed away. / / Her mother berried her close nearby / The church came down on the pond, half dry. / / And over the waves of the deepest place / A cross is floating at an even pace. / / Days, years and ...»
«to Chulkov Don't build a house by a drowned current / Where life is bustling under a strain; / Believe me, the end is always recurrent, / It's incomprehensible, solemn and plain. / / Like a bedtime story your fate is quiet; / Lonely heart, you had better give in and be blessed. / Go ...»
«I knew her as far back / as those unbelievable years. / Tutchev With years you haven't changed, my fair: / You're charming, strict, as clear as day; / The only change is in your hair, / It"s sleek and with a flash of grey. / / Well, as for me, I'm sitting here, / Over my book...»