In multitude of choir polyhymnal
All tender churches sing in their own voice
And the stone vaults of the Dormition cathedral
Like eyebrows in still higher arch rejoice.
And from the rampart fortified by the archangels
I watched the city from a wondrous height
In the Acropolis sadness has deranged me
For Russian name and Russian beauty's sight.
That of the garden we dream it is no wonder,
Where doves do soar upon the hot blue beams
The nun sings Orthodox hymns, Dormition's wonder,
Florence in Moscow so tender seems
And the five-domed Moscow cathedrals
With soul Italian and Russian both
Remind me of Aurora's reappearance
With Russian surname and draped in fur clothes.
В разноголосице девического хора
Все церкви нежные поют на голос свой,
И в дугах каменных Успенского собора
Мне брови чудятся, высокие, дугой.
И с укрепленного архангелами вала
Я город озирал на чудной высоте.
В стенах Акрополя печаль меня снедала
По русском имени и русской красоте.
Не диво ль дивное, что вертоград нам снится,
Где голуби в горячей синеве,
Что православные крюки поет черница:
Успенье нежное -- Флоренция в Москве.
И пятиглавые московские соборы
С их итальянскою и русскою душой
Напоминают мне явление Авроры,
Но с русским именем и в шубке меховой.
«Farewell, dirty, unwashed Russia, / Country of masters, land of slaves, / And you, you sky-blue uniforms, / And you, people by them betrayed. Perhaps beyond the Caucasus' wall / I'll be hidden from your overlords, / Shielded from their all-seeing eyes, / Screened from their all-hearing...»
«In my exile I observe the sacred, / Congenial custom of antiquity / And release a bird into freedom / On the bright holiday of spring. / I become capable of serenity; / For what reason do I curse God / When just to one of his creatures / I’m empowered freedom to grant!»
«Life goes on, defying common sense. / Old men chatter in the southern sun: / “Moscow ballrooms… The weather in Simbirsk… / The War… Kerensky… We had freedom then…” Before you know it — forty years in France, / a buzzing in the head, chill in the bones. / “Masonic plot…...»
«Should I tell you about all the fools of the world / Who the fate of the entire humanity hold? Should I tell you about all scumbags, dead clowns, / Who pass into history in white crowns? But what for? / ……….It’s quiet under a Paris bridge, / I don’t care if after me there’s the»