Nikolay Gumilev
Beatrice

Muses, enough, cease your sobbing,
Pour out your grief into singing,
Sing about Dante soul-stirring,
Or play the flute, play with feeling.

Move on, annoying faun deities,
Music is dead in your screaming!
Haven’t you learned only lately
Beatrice exited Eden.

All white and strange Rose is lurking
In quiet chill of the evening...
What’s this? Additional warning?
Or is this plea for forgiving?

There lived a flustered artist
Used to the worldly deceptions –
Sinner, seducer... impious,
Beatrice was the exception.

Poet’s reclusive affection
Turned into luminous currents,
Turned into torrents of passion,
Tugging away at his heartstrings.

Muses, in this splendid sonnet
Render the riddle to setting,
Sing about Dante, be certain,
Gabriel Dante Rossetti.

Translated by Dina Belyayeva