Hopes, painted by the autumn cold, are shining;
My steady horse plods on as calm as Fate;
His dun Hp twitches moistly at the lining
Of my blown coat; he does not change his gait.
On a far road the unseen traces, leading
Neither to rest nor battle, lure and fade;
The golden heels of day will flash, receding,
And labors in the chest of years be laid.
Осенним холодом расцвечены надежды,
Бредет мой конь, как тихая судьба,
И ловит край махающей одежды
Его чуть мокрая буланая губа.
В дорогу дальнюю, ни к битве, ни к покою,
Влекут меня незримые следы,
Погаснет день, мелькнув пятой златою,
И в короб лет улягутся труды.
«OK, Graylegs, time to set the plow / aside. Rainstorm lashes our faces. / Time to turn back to the barn, / to dinner, dreams, and darkness.»
«I swam across the Sudak Gulf, / I rode a wild horse. / I shouted: / "Russia has perished, is no more, / partitioned now like Poland!" / And people stared in horror. / I said: / "The heart of a modern Russian hangs like a bat." / And ...»
«The tangled wood was full of sound / the forest screamed, the forest groaned / with fear / to see the spear-man beast his spear. Why does hart's horn hang heavy / with the moving mark of love? / Arrow's flash of metal hits a haunch, / and reckons right. Now beast is broken to his knees...»
«I see them: Crab, Ram, Bull, / and all the world is only shell / whose pearl and opalescence / is my impotence. / A knock, a chirr, container of whistle and rustle, / and I realize then that waves and thought are kin. / Here, there, in milky ways, women rise / through darkness drunk on...»