Here I'm alone in evening hour calm,
I'll only think of you, I feel no qualm.
I'll take up book but what I'll read is "she",
And soul again is drunk, distraught with thee.
I'll throw myself on old and creaky bed,
The pillow burns... No, I won't sleep, I'll tread.
I'll walk to window, furtive step's a boon,
I'll glance at smoky meadow and the Moon.
There, by the flower beds, you told me "yes",
This yes will stay with me for good, I guess.
But suddenly my conscience will retort,
That you were the most humble to comport.
That your veiled "yes", your trembling, and your kiss
Were just a spring delirium and dreams.
Вот я один в вечерний тихий час,
Я буду думать лишь о вас, о вас,
Возьмусь за книгу, но прочту: «она»,
И вновь душа пьяна и смятена.
Я брошусь на скрипучую кровать,
Подушка жжет… нет, мне не спать, а ждать.
И крадучись я подойду к окну,
На дымный луг взгляну и на луну,
Вон там, у клумб, вы мне сказали «да»,
О это «да» со мною навсегда.
И вдруг сознанье бросит мне в ответ,
Что вас, покорной, не было и нет,
Что ваше «да», ваш трепет, у сосны
Ваш поцелуй — лишь бред весны и сны.
«Armed with the eyesight of those narrow wasps / That buzzing suck the axis of the earth, / I still feel keenly everything I’ve seen / And recollect it, by heart and in vain. I do not draw, nor sing, nor do I grasp / The raven-voiced violin bow with bravado: / I avidly drink in life and ...»
«There's no need to use the gift of speech, / There is hardly anything to teach, / And the features of the animal soul / Are sublimely sad and beautiful. Having no command of human speech, / Nor anything teachable to teach, / It swims in the hoary ocean’s gulf, / Laughing like a happy ...»
«Of no use to you, night, I’m lost / In you: a shell without a pearl / Cast from the ocean of the world / And washed up on your starry coast. With an indifference in the waves, / You coldly heave your singing sighs, / Yet you will grow to love the lies / Told by a seashell of no use. ...»
«It is midnight in Moscow, a sumptuously Buddhist summer. / With a fast rataplan, the streets part their ways in tight iron boots, / Coils of boulevards luxuriate in smallpox… / Moscow will not settle down even at night, / When peace flees from under the hooves… / You’ll say, two circ...»