Silver bluebell, are you singing,
Or, perchance, my heart is dreaming?
Light from rosy icon flashes
Falling on my golden lashes.
Though I'm not that gentle infant
in the flapping splash of pigeons,
Yet my dreams are sweet and distant,
Somewhere in the woodland regions.
I don't need the narrow house,
Word and mystery won't welcome.
Teach me, please, to dream and drowse,
Fall asleep and never waken.
Колокольчик среброзвонный,
Ты поёшь? Иль сердцу снится?
Свет от розовой иконы
На златых моих ресницах.
Пусть не я тот нежный отрок
В голубином крыльев плеске,
Сон мой радостен и кроток
О нездешнем перелеске.
Мне не нужен вздох могилы,
Слову с тайной не обняться.
Научи, чтоб можно было
Никогда не просыпаться.
«In her shameless and pathetic baseness, / Like dust, she is gray, like mortal remains. / And I am dying of this fatal closeness, / Because she cannot be dissolved from me. She is rough and she is thorny; / She is cold — she is a snake. / I am wounded all over by her sickly-burning, / ...»
«Night raises its shroud — / And the waves murmur, as foes. / I hear, daughter of Lordly Abysses, / Your immortal steps!.. Departed! Is it not how all of you / Step across the threshold / Of atrocious elements? And, as lions, / They lie at your feet — And lick your elongated shroud...»
«To A. N. Chebotarevsky Hilly groves, caved with crimson, / Blue, scowling mountains far away… / In the back-country, on refined thorns, / Climbs the wild hop. An errant ray of silvery light… / As in a coffin, the Earth gets colder / And clears off with the exuberant grief...»
«Children of the city, withered faded flowers, / I love you for the completion that a dream empowers. If only this forehead would smooth out from strain, / If only these eyes were not so sad and drained, If only these bodies were not starved and thin, / How much joyful enmity would have surge...»