Nikolay Gumilev
Agamemnon’s Warrior

A stark barren fact that all logic opposes,
Bare truth that oppresses my soul:
Atrid lies dead on a bed of red roses,
So how can I live, how my grief to condole?

All that we dreamt of, always and ever,
Longings and yearnings and fears,
All was made flesh in his purest endeavors,
His eyes where sereneness inhered.

Puissant like wind were his muscles of might,
Lissome with grace were his legs at knees’ bend,
He was as lovely as clouds at first light,
The leader of gold-laden Argos: Godsend.

And I, what am I? A shred from old lesions,
A javelin lost in the greenness of lawn,
The shepherd lies dead, the chieftain of legions,
While I, a mere nothing, breathe on.

The depths of lake waters are calling my name,
Rebuke gleams in sheen of each dawn,
Leaden, like rocks in my soul, is the shame,
Losing one’s king, to live on!

Translated by U. R. Bowie