For the resounding glory of ages to come
For the tall race of men
I have given up both the cup at my fathers' feast
My mirth and my honour.
The wolf-hound age throws itself at my shoulders
But I am no wolf by my blood,
Rather stuff me like a hat into the sleeve
Of the warm overcout of the Siberian Steppes.
That I may see neither the coward, the soft waste,
Nor the bloody bones in the wheel,
That all night the blue Arctic foxes may shine
To me in their primal beauty.
Take me away into the night where the river Yenisei flows
And the pines grow to the stars,
Because I am no wolf by my blood
And only my equal will kill me.
За гремучую доблесть грядущих веков,
За высокое племя людей, —
Я лишился и чаши на пире отцов,
И веселья, и чести своей.
Мне на плечи кидается век-волкодав,
Но не волк я по крови своей:
Запихай меня лучше, как шапку, в рукав
Жаркой шубы сибирских степей...
Чтоб не видеть ни труса, ни хлипкой грязцы,
Ни кровавых костей в колесе;
Чтоб сияли всю ночь голубые песцы
Мне в своей первобытной красе.
Уведи меня в ночь, где течет Енисей
И сосна до звезды достает,
Потому что не волк я по крови своей
И меня только равный убьет.
«I like you well, O trusty dagger mine, / My comrade wrought of cool Damascus steel! / Forged were you by the Georgian with revenge in the mind, / By the Circassian free — for war were you made keen. A lily-white hand it was gave you to me — / You were affection's keepsake, its last gift...»
«We walk along the streets like in a dream. / We look at women, and we coffee drink. / But real words we still can not reveal, / And the approximate we do not feel. What shall we do? Go back to Petersburg? / Or fall in love? Or blow the Operá? / Or simply lie in bed — which’s cold, / ...»
«The alarming roll of a drum / Stirs the mist of an early morn, / Joan of Arc on a galloping horse / To besieged Orleans is borne. To the clinking of wine glasses, / To the strains of an old minuet, / In the Petit Trianon* passes / Care-free life of Marie Antoinette... A small lamp ligh...»
«Beside their big fire they had laid themselves down, / Their powerless bodies prostrate. / A bullet had gone through the temple of one / To home in the head of his mate. The hands of the two had locked in a vice / The now dead machine gun they’d manned, / And neither the storm nor the s...»