Wiping tears of hurt and childish sorrow,
Cotton dress you took—your best attire —
Always somepne straight from out a story,
To a world of fables you retired.
Ever since, by dreams I’ve been bedevilled
That you’d left your fable-land domain,
That I had been married to a bluebird
Who once set the ocean-blue aflame.
Вытерла заплаканное личико,
Ситцевое платьице взяла,
Вышла — и, как птичка-невеличка,
В басенку, как в башенку, пошла.
И теперь мне постоянно снится,
Будто ты из басенки ушла,
Будто я женат был на синице,
Что когда-то море подожгла.
«Your stripe will be harvested / By which person's arms? / O the black magician you! / My black-plaited one! Your tumultuous century, / And your midnight days... / All your little workers are / At once born away. Where are your campaigner friends, / Your comrades in arms? / O the b...»
«S E Brothers! In the last hour / Of year — after our / Russian land, living in us! / Exactly twelve times / Mug to mug! After the rabble of honor, / After Taman, after Kuban, / After our Russian Don, / Jordan of old faith... Once more, / Mug to mug! Comrades! / Alive still i...»
«When horses die, they breathe / When grasses die, they wither, / When suns die, they go out, / When people die, they sing songs.»
«I hate the roar of giant cities, neighborhoods, / I am repulsed by crowd commotion, / My spirit lives in depths of woods, / Where in secluded calm devotion / I hark to music of unseen sweet voices' moods, / ...»