On the green hills a herd of horses strays;
Their nostrils blow the gold dust from the days.
From the high hills to the blue water’s reach
They shake and drop their manes as black as pitch.
Over the quiet water their heads strain;
The moon has caught them in a silver rein.
Snorting in fear of their own shadows, they
Must wait to toss their manes, wait till the day.
. . .
About the horses’ ears the spring day rings
With the first flies’ delightful welcomings.
But when the evening on the fields appears,
The horses kick about and twitch their ears.
Their ringing hooves sound fainter as they pass,
Now fade in air, now hover in the grass.
Only the water stretches to the star;
Sorrows along its surface twinkle far.
. . .
The sun has set. Quiet is everywhere.
Upon his horn a herdsman plays an air.
With lowered heads, the herd stands listening
To what the shaggy herdsman has to sing.
And playful Echo into their lips glides
And takes their thoughts to magic countrysides.
I love your days, I love your nights' dark shade.
My country, and for you this song I made.
В холмах зеленых табуны коней
Сдувают ноздрями златой налет со дней.
С бугра высокого в синеющий залив
Упала смоль качающихся грив.
Дрожат их головы над тихою водой,
И ловит месяц их серебряной уздой.
Храпя в испуге на свою же тень,
Зазастить гривами они ждут новый день.
*
Весенний день звенит над конским ухом
С приветливым желаньем к первым мухам.
Но к вечеру уж кони над лугами
Брыкаются и хлопают ушами.
Все резче звон, прилипший на копытах,
То тонет в воздухе, то виснет на ракитах.
И лишь волна потянется к звезде,
Мелькают мухи пеплом по воде.
*
Погасло солнце. Тихо на лужке.
Пастух играет песню на рожке.
Уставясь лбами, слушает табун,
Что им поет вихрастый гамаюн.
А эхо резвое, скользнув по их губам,
Уносит думы их к неведомым лугам.
Любя твой день и ночи темноту,
Тебе, о родина, сложил я песню ту.
«At my cheerless table / I a-musing sit: / How is one to be / In the world alone? / I, a stalwart youth, / Have no wife, no mate; / I, a stalwart youth, / Want a loving friend. / Want a harrow, share; / Want a kindly hearth; / Want a barn well-stocked, / And a good plo...»
«Pull, my gray one, pull now! / Turning o’er the black clods, / Mother-earth will burnish / White the iron ploughshare. / / Blushing dawn, the fair one, / Lo! on the bright horizon; / From the waking woodland / Comes the sun in glory. / / Joyous rolls the ploughland! / ...»
«When from thy shame, degrading, dark, I drew / Thy fallen spirit out with words of flame; / And thou, with wringing hands, in anguish deep, / Didst curse the sin that compassed thee about; / When thou didst lash thy conscience, late and dull, / With story of thy past, confessing all ...»
«“Well, wife, how are you? How are you, my little ones? / Ah, for a good drink of ale! Such a frost!” — / “Lately the last drop you drained with the constable, / Hast thou forgotten it?” — “Well, nothing lost! / / I shall, poor sinner, get warm soon without it. / But first ...»