Dear publishers, I here surrender
To feelings new and opportune.
I'm learning how in verse to render
Old Russia reared as a commune.
What matter if in words that falter
My pencil whispered to the page
And, half-awake, my heart sang hoarsely,
Not fathoming our joyous age?
With the perception of a poet
You'll read my thoughts, nor find it strange
That in the land of Soviet power
The language people write should change.
My bold endeavour you'll acknowledge
And not in mockery engage
Simply because in words that falter
My pencil whispered to the page.
Издатель славный! В этой книге
Я новым чувствам предаюсь,
Учусь постигнуть в каждом миге
Коммуной вздыбленную Русь.
Пускай о многом неумело
Шептал бумаге карандаш,
Душа спросонок хрипло пела,
Не понимая праздник наш.
Но ты видением поэта
Прочтешь не в буквах, а в другом,
Что в той стране, где власть Советов,
Не пишут старым языком.
И, разбирая опыт смелый,
Меня насмешке не предашь, —
Лишь потому так неумело
Шептал бумаге карандаш.
«In the darkness and still of a mysterious night / I see a fond and welcoming spark, / From the chorus of spheres, familiar eyes / Shine upon a grave forgotten in the steppe. The grass has faded, the desert is grim, / A lonely tomb dreams an orphan's dream, / And only in the sky, like an e...»
«I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid. — With effort / I reach my hands out and I call / For help. Yes, I recall the tortures / Of dying. — Yes, this is no dream! — / And without effort, like a spider web / I push aside my casket's rotting wood And stand. How bright the winter light appea...»
«When you were reading those tormented lines / In which the heart's resonant flame sends out glowing streams / And passion's fatal torrents rear up, — / Didn't you recall a single thing? I can't believe it! That night on the steppe / When, in the midnight mist a premature dawn, / Transpa...»
«While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling / Where, teasing my imagination, / A circle hangs above the quiet lamp, / And spins just like a ghostly shadow. Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset: / As if, above the rooftop and the garden, / Unable to fly off, afraid...»