The capitals are rocked with thunder
Of orators in wordy feuds.
But in the depths of Russia, yonder,
An age-old awful silence broods.
Only the wind in wayside willows,
Coming and going, does not cease;
And corn-stalks touch in curving billows
The earth that cherishes and pillows,
Through endless fields of changeless peace.
В столицах шум, гремят витии,
Кипит словесная война,
А там, во глубине России, –
Там вековая тишина.
Лишь ветер не дает покою
Вершинам придорожных ив,
И выгибаются дугою,
Целуясь с матерью землею,
Колосья бесконечных нив...
«Through tannic steam I catch a glimpse of Fuji: / Against a yellow sky volcanic gold / A saucer narrows nature very strangely, / In shallow ripples lovely to behold. / The clouds, like little webs, like spider legs, / Are pierced by sun no bigger than a mote, / And bird-fish, ...»
«To fling slant links / into mirror / sphere space, — / maniacal parabolas, / jingling, curl up a / stubbled raceme. Tribal, zodiacal, / fields flame, / ether bubbles, / but all intersects / yield the still- / lettered scheme / of your name!»
«As girls dream of grooms, / You and I talk of art. / O secret flock of cranes! / Lithe lurch of living flights! Catherine is betrothed to Christ; / One soul throbs two hearts. / Wind whips cheeks of bloom, / Eyes go down in flames. Winged and tangled blurts, / "I love" not quite rest...»
«The sense of your bidding is unclear: / to pray, to curse, is it, to fight / you bid me, inscrutable genius? / The spring slackens, niggard, meager, / and Benozzo Gozzoli's courier / dozes in the drowsy thickets. Hills are dark with honeyed cloud. / Look: I do not touch lithe strings. /...»