Nikolay Gumilev
On the ridges of rippling green waves...

On the ridges of rippling green waves
In the arctic and southern seas.
Among reefs of basalt and pearl
Rustle sails of the ships in the breeze.

These swift-winged are captained by men
Who discover new lands and new goals,
And for whom hurricanes hold no dread.
Who have known many maelstroms and shoals —

With their breasts soaked with salt of the sea,
Not the dust of a lone mislaid chart,
Who with needles can mark their bold course
On a torn map that's crumbling apart,

And who, climbing the shuddering bridge.
Still recall their lost port with no pain
As they slash oft' the fragmented foam
On their jack boots with whacks of a cane,

Or discovering a mutiny on board
Tear the gun from the belt with such pace
That the gold scatters oft' of their cuffs
Which are made of a pink Brabant lace.

Let the waves lift their crests to the skies,
Let the seas rage and lash at the rails,
Not one captain will quake in the storm,
Not one captain will roll down his sails.

Cowards never are given such hands
And such confident eyes with keen glow,
That know how and can suddenly hurl
Frigates against a felucca foe

And can strike giant whales — with well-aimed
Bullets or with an iron harpoon’s flight,
And can spot in the star-spangled night
Guardian gleams of the lighthouse’s light.

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks

(Nikolay Gumilev`s site)