I love the faded blossoms
Of late-blooming violets and lilacs,
Half-hinted, half-tinted
By an entwining haze of beauty.
The troubled soul is ill
And embraced by the silent dusk;
It is enraptured by approaching sleep
And the peaceful charm of sunset.
What remains for the fire of hopes to illumine?
What can breathe with that bygone joy?
What will rouse
My sinking, half-closed lids?
Nothing. No one. Desires are gone.
The lightning has flashed mutely.
I gaze with a smile of exhaustion
At life, and the vanity of vanities.
The celestial path is hidden in a mist.
Grief subsides, wounds grow mute.
Blessed, blessed is Nirvana’s rest —
To doze ... to disappear ... to drown.
Люблю я блеклые цветы
Фиалок поздних и сирени,
Полунамеки, полутени
Повитой дымкой красоты.
Душа тревожная больна
И тихим сумраком объята,
Спокойной прелестью заката,
Грядущим сном упоена.
Что озарит огнем надежд?
Повеет радостью бывалой?
Заставит дрогнуть взмах усталый
Моих полузакрытых вежд?
Ничто. Ничто. Желаний нет.
Безвольно замерли моленья,
Смотрю с улыбкой утомленья
На жизнь, на суету сует.
Сокрыт туманом горный путь.
Стихает грусть, немеют раны.
Блажен, блажен покой нирваны,—
Уснуть... исчезнуть... утонуть...
«I would love winter, but / Its burden is heavy... / Not even smoke can go from / It into the clouds. This incising of lines, / This loaded flight, / This beggarly-blue / And tearstained ice! But I love the snow enfeebled / From blisses beyond the / Clouds — the now sparklingly / ...»
«The grasses are tender, the tombstones / Are white, and copper rings out / Triumphantly: “The blue ice is / Broken up and it must be burnt.” The sun seems to spin, / Forgetting its long winter / Imprisonment, only I hear death’s / Summons in the Easter hymn. Why! under the snow a...»
«Oh, eve of eternal workdays, / Viscous sting of ennui... in / The dusty heat of middays the / Din and paint of the station... Half-dead Hies on the / Nailed-up kiosk, on / The spilt whitewash. / Blind, greedy and deaf. Faded green flag, white / Puffs of steam, and / The unanswered ...»
«Enough of deeds, enough of words, let / Us remain silent, without a smile. / It Is snowing from low clouds, and the / Sky’s light is dismal and wavering. The black willow bushes are tossing / In a struggle incomprehensible / To them; until tomorrow, I tell / You - today you and I are ...»