Your pensive sigh is calling me
To warm light, to my native threshold
Where grandmother and grandfather sit on the porch
Awaiting their spirited sunflower-aged grandson.
Their grandson is slim and white as a birch,
With honey hair and velvet hands.
Except, o my friend, I see from his blue eyes —
They’re only dreaming of his worldly life.
The bright Virgin in the icon corner
Beams joy into their darkness.
With a quiet smile on her thin lips
She holds their grandson in her arms.
К тёплому свету, на отчий порог,
Тянет меня твой задумчивый вздох.
Ждут на крылечке там бабка и дед
Резвого внука подсолнечных лет.
Строен и бел, как берёзка, их внук,
С мёдом волосьев и бархатом рук.
Только, о друг, по глазам голубым —
Жизнь его в мире пригрезилась им.
Шлёт им лучистую радость во мглу
Светлая дева в иконном углу.
С тихой улыбкой на тонких губах
Держит их внука она на руках.
«Forgotten, cold, my dust will fall asleep / while you are entering your life's sweet May. / One moment then, with magnanimity, / read through these verses that once came to me. And with a maiden's keen and thoughtful heart / you'll understand my words' wild ecstasy, / and why it was I oft...»
«I always s like the northern birches: / Their view, so downcast and grave, / The fever, which poor souls scorches, / Cools like the mute speech of a grave. But yet, the willow, which branches, / With their long leaves, cast in a flood, / Is closer to a dream, that scourges, / And longe...»
«I have come to you, delighted, / To tell you that sun has risen, / That its light has warmly started / To fulfil on leaves its dancing; To tell you that wood’s awaken / In its every branch and leafage, / And with every bird is shaken, / Thirsty of the springy image; To tell you that...»
«On a hay rick in lands of South, / I lay, while facing skies of night, / The choir of stars, alive and couth, / Was trembling, spread at every side. The earth, mute as a dream half-hidden, / Was fast receding into space, / And I, as if the first in Eden, / Alone met the black night...»