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.
«We've got the hot Sun, and naive, little children, / And joy of prized melodies, books that intrigue, / If not, how could on this round planet have lived then / Beethoven and Pushkin, and Heine, and Grieg? Invisible arts live in every small instant, / In thoughtful, strong words, smiles and...»
«“Come, Children! / Who is the bravest in the world?” / They knew—and answered in one singing voice: / “The lion!” / “The lion? Ha ha...It’s easy to be brave / If your paws are as wide as mops. / No, it’s neither the lion, nor the elephant, / But the littlest one—The m...»
«The woods have turned green, / The pond has turned green. / And green frogs / Croak their songs. / / A fir-tree--a sheaf of green candles, / Moss--a green carpet. / And a green grasshopper / Conducts the song... / / Above a house's green roof / A green oak sleeps, / And two...»
«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...»