It’s not in wise man’s recollections,
Not in a poet’s sweet refrain,
Not in a hero’s daring action,
Not in a hermit’s silent strain.
But contrary to grievance tending
To cover all divine with slime,
Behold: it’s in the sun ascending
On golden canvases of sky.
Each year the Spring brings up the flowers
Forgetting all the heavy thoughts,
And greedily absorbing powers,
The seeds are rushing to explode.
The shoots are burst with mystic forces
And soon the leaves are born on trees –
In learning how to worship roses
They’re taking lessons from the breeze.
The Soul has made its sacred circle;
And coming back to childish dreams,
Just like my savage primal fathers,
I worship trees, and stars, and streams.
Оно не в книгах мудреца,
Не в сладких вымыслах поэта,
Не в громких подвигах бойца,
Не в тихих подвигах аскета.
Но между тем, как скорби тень
Растет, ложась на все святое, -
Смотри: с востока, что ни день,
Восходит солнце золотое.
И каждый год цветет весна,
Не зная думы безотрадной,
И, солнца луч впивая жадно,
Спешат на волю семена.
И всходы тайной силой пучит,
И вскоре листья рождены,
И ветер ласковый их учит
Шептать название весны.
Душа свершила круг великий.
И вот, вернувшись к детским снам,
Я вновь, как праотец мой дикий,
Молюсь деревьям и звездам.
«Everybody chooses for oneself / A woman, a religion, and a way. / To serve for the devil or prophet — / Everyone chooses for oneself. Everybody chooses for oneself / The sword for dueling or for battle. / The word for prayer or for love — / Everyone chooses for oneself. Everybody c...»
«Among the green sea waves, that kissed Tavrida, / At dawn I saw among so charming nereida. / Hidden between the trees, I hardly dared to sigh, / Over the clear moisture of her breasts could die, / So young and white, like swan them raised, / And streams of foam from her hair squeezed. »
«There’s jasmine altar, canopy shrine, / And virgins whitely dressed in rows. / Where the reed’s incense is smoking / Before the crystal statue of the goddess, / That putting down narrow its goat's eyes. A forest, morn, heat. An emerald’s green, / That in the crystal chrysolite shin...»
«No, the dead are never dead to us! / There is an old Scottish legend, / That their shadows, invisible to eyes, / In midnight visit us once on the weekend. That dusty harps are hanging on the walls, / Mysteriously touch by their hands, / And they awake in the slumbering strings / The s...»