On the pale-blue enamel,
that April can bring,
birch branches’ imperceptible
sway, slipped towards evening.
A network of finely etched lines,
is the pattern’s finished state,
the carefully-made design,
like that on a porcelain plate,
the thoughtful artist set,
on the glazed firmament,
oblivious to sad death,
knowing ephemeral strength.
На бледно-голубой эмали,
Какая мыслима в апреле,
Березы ветви поднимали
И незаметно вечерели.
Узор отточенный и мелкий,
Застыла тоненькая сетка,
Как на фарфоровой тарелке
Рисунок, вычерченный метко, —
Когда его художник милый
Выводит на стеклянной тверди,
В сознании минутной силы,
В забвении печальной смерти.
«Frost and the sun; a splendid morning! / My dear friend, you still lie dormant, — / It's time, my beauty, rise in cheer: / Ope your eyelids lulled by night / To the splendor of the northern lights / And like the northern star appear! Recall the night, the storm was raging, / The...»
«I sit in a dungeon with a downcast face / And see a young eagle in captivity raised, / While flapping his wing, my companion in woe / Is tearing his meal by my window alone. He pecks for a while and then glances inside, / As if we have both the same thing in mind, / With a longing ex...»
«I'm sitting by bars in the damp blackened cell — / The juvenile eagle, who's bred by the jail, / My mournful friend, with his wings stretching wide, / Is picking at bloody food right by my side. He’s picking and looking at me through the bars, / Like having a thought that is common to u...»
«I sit behind bars in the dankest of blocks. / A captive young eagle, the king of the hawks, / My sorry companion here, lifting his wings, / Pecks bloody food by the sill, pecks and flings, And looks out the window, away, away off, / As if he, with me, fell to thinking one thought. / He su...»