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...
«Gentle in friendship, in argument vehement, / It seems only yesterday I saw you thus / Sitting here talking with Boris Levin** / Till dawn, there was so much to discuss. I see you addressing a general meeting / Of the club with a speech that’s tense and terse, / Winning the Diamond Cup,...»
«Over Moscow where the Moskva River flows, / When the hostile bombers came at night, / When for watches in the hush of dark we rose, / Then our flashlights we would always light. A sentry round the year, / From sundown till the light, / My flashlight, my companion dear, / Burn bright, bu...»
«Black cross on the Italian’s bosom, / With no chasing, or pattern, or gloss on, / By poor family handed down, / Heirloom worn by the only son. Young and carefree native of Napoli, / Why come here to die so unhappily? / What strange restlessness drove you away / From the shores of that...»
«To Iosif Utkin* Fresh oats he’ll feed / To the horses on top the Bolshoi**, / Four spirited steeds / Strong and fast1 as a river in spate. / We’ve caught up with that woman... / Are you called Cleopatra? My joy, / Come to me, come, / I’m waiting for you at the gate. I shall sho...»