In my night-time fever
I see you, O
Winged Victory of Samothrace,
reaching out your arms.
First night-silence runs
from you, then your blind
inexorable driving flight
brings giddiness, whirling sick.
Your crazy-bright eyes
laugh, and blaze,
and our shadows run behind us,
and can’t keep up, can’t keep up.
В час моего ночного бреда
Ты возникаешь пред глазами —
Самофракийская Победа
С простертыми вперед руками.
Спугнув безмолвие ночное,
Рождает головокруженье
Твое крылатое, слепое,
Неудержимое стремленье.
В твоем безумно-светлом взгляде
Смеется что-то, пламенея,
И наши тени мчатся сзади,
Поспеть за нами не умея.
«Unharnessed, the white horse ambles along. / Where are you going, white horse? / The sun shines, an early spring breeze / Rumples the shirts and handkerchiefs in the garden. I who one day took my leave of Russia / (On a night preceeding an arctic dawn) / Did not turn round, nor cross myse...»
«On the boundary of snow and melting. / Of movement and repose. / Of light-mindedness and of despair — / Is palpitation, virtigo. Blue night of solitude — / Life smashes itself to bits. / First name and patronymic vanish / And the surname runs like ink... Like stars, the prophecies ...»
«To T. G. Terentevaya Not so long ago, the world was complete — / Linden crees and paths in the ancient parks. / There Turgenev brooded . . . / The world was complete. / White columns, a study, a living room . . . / There Turgenev broo...»
«Night: a street, a streetlight; drugstore; / A meaningless dim luminance. / Go live tor twenty-five years more — / Nothing will change. There's no way out. You'll die, and start again, while all / Recurs, identically: the night, / The chill ripples on the canal. / The drugstore, the s...»