Pavillions spread over the square,
The maple leaves kiss the stars.
It's night — a celebration there,
Merriment and festivity in the park.
But when a pyrotechnist hurls
A silvery light from tree-tops to sky,
Poet, don't put your trust
In the night's fantastic bursts.
The rocket will fly off and die,
Its fiery sparks will grow dim...
But a poet's heart shines forever
In the pure depths of a poem.
Расступились на площади зданья,
Листья клена целуют звезду.
Нынче ночью - большое гулянье,
И веселье, и праздник в саду.
Но когда пиротехник из рощи
Бросит в небо серебряный свет,
Фантастическим выстрелам ночи
Не вполне доверяйся, поэт.
Улетит и погаснет ракета,
Потускнеют огней вороха...
Вечно светит лишь сердце поэта
В целомудренной бездне стиха.
«For all, I thank Thee, I, the meek remitter: / For passion's secret torments without end, / The kiss of venom, and the tears too bitter, / The vengeful enemy, the slanderous friend, / The spirit's ardor on the desert squandered, / For every lash of life's deceiving thong; / I thank Thee ...»
«Silent I sit by the prison's high window, / Where through the bars the blue heavens are breaking. / Flecks in the azure, the free birds are playing; / Watching them fly there, my shamed heart is aching. But on my sinful lips never a prayer, / Never a song in the praise of my charmer; / Al...»
«Like a white stone deep in a draw-well lying, / As hard and clear, a memory lies in me. / I cannot strive nor have I heart for striving: / It is such pain and yet such ecstasy. It seems to me that someone looking closely / Into my eyes would see it, patent, pale. / And, seeing, would grow...»
«From my poor sins I am set free. / In lilac dusk the taper smolders; / The dark stole's rigid drapery / Conceals a massive head and shoulders. "Talitha kumi": Is it He / Once more? How fast the heart is beating . . . / A touch: a hand moves absently / The customary cross repeating.»