How many of earth’s oceans I’ve sailed, oceans
ancient, gay, foam-covered;
how many matchless nights and days
have gone guiding caravans across the steppes...
How we laughed, then,
my Muse and I, free...
Rhymes flew together like birds,
so many — I don’t dare remember how many.
Only love is left, calling
like the strings of an angel’s harp,
like a thin needle stabbing the heart
with Heaven’s blue lights.
Only you are left. I’ve seen,
my eyes open, the night’s sun,
and you are all I live for,
work for, fight for.
In this restless hell of mine — yes,
you are the pilgrims’ Jerusalem.
I should mention your name
with a seraphim’s tongue.
В скольких земных океанах я плыл,
Древних, веселых и пенных,
Сколько в степях караваны водил
Дней и ночей несравненных…
Как мы смеялись в былые года
С вольною Музой моею…
Рифмы, как птицы, слетались тогда,
Сколько — и вспомнить не смею.
Только любовь мне осталась, струной
Ангельской арфы взывая,
Душу пронзая, как тонкой иглой,
Синими светами рая.
Ты мне осталась одна. Наяву
Видевший солнце ночное,
Лишь для тебя на земле я живу,
Делаю дело земное.
Да, ты в моей беспокойной судьбе —
Ерусалим пилигримов.
Надо бы мне говорить о тебе
На языке серафимов.
«I lived obscurely and uncertainly, / And spoke of things not always true. / But I can recollect a certain tree / An inky giant in the blue. / And I recall a woman dear to me. / Was I a coward? I don’t know. / But superstitiously and timidly / I took her hand—and let it go. / And ...»
«She lay beside the bridge. The German troops had reckoned / To cheapen her by this. Instead, her nakedness / Was like an ancient statue’s unadorned perfection, / Was like unspotted Nature’s loveliness and grace. / We covered her and carried her. The bridge, unsteady, / Appeared to palp...»
«Where people have dined you find refuse and tin, / Pans, broken glass, a bed, lilac in a pot. / And high in the rafters above it all, / Rocks an empty cradle. / Iron and bricks, squares and disks, / A vague jumble of things, / And wherever you step, / All the odds and ends of others’...»
«I am the trumpet blown by Time; / I have to call — they may believe. / But who will know the truth sublime / That even brass can weep and grieve? He forced my lips that had been dumb / To howl with prophecy and fright: / I made from boredom — martyrdom; / The tragic eve — from sim...»