The evening flares, the cat naps on a beam.
Someone is praying: “Lord Jesus.”
The twilight blazes, the fog kindles;
There is a scarlet curtain over the ornate window.
Spider webs stretch from the golden toolshed.
Somewhere a mouse is scratching in a closed cage…
By the forest meadow — bundles of wheat.
Firs, like spears, rest against the sky.
The dew-covered groves have started to smolder…
In the heart, only silence and relics.
Задымился вечер, дремлет кот на брусе.
Кто-то помолился: «Господи Исусе».
Полыхают зори, курятся туманы,
Над резным окошком занавес багряный.
Вьются паутины с золотой повети.
Где-то мышь скребется в затворенной клети...
У лесной поляны — в свяслах копны хлеба,
Ели, словно копья, уперлися в небо.
Закадили дымом под росою рощи...
В сердце почивают тишина и мощи.
«So many stones flew at me all times, / That no one of them now is feared. / Into the tower, peer to the highest ones, / Is changed a trap, before for me contrived. / I grateful to builders of high walls, / Let them be missed by sadness and by troubles. / From here I early see the scarlet...»
«It wasn’t at all that quite mysterious painter, / Which has well-pictured Hoffmann’s misty dreams, — / From that unknown and far spring, it seems, / I can observe a plantain in its flatter. And it was greening — our town, plain, / Trimming its steps, like some wings, wide and soari...»
«Thank you, God: I dream of him more seldom, / And don’t see him now in every place, / The white path with clouds has been laden, / Easy shadows o’er the waters raced. / And all day the chime of bells arose / O’er the ocean of the ploughed soil; / Here the toll is best-heard from Sa...»
«There are the words that couldn’t be twice said, / He, who said once, spent out all his senses. / Only two things have never their end — / The heavens’ blue and the Creator’s mercy.»