Chase poems of the night away,
No need for preemies of the spirit:
Since night assists you at their birth,
And night is an atrocious midwife.
You madman! If you really do
Aspire to exalted singing,
Outstubborn, try to overcome
Your momentary excitation.
Know this: the chatter of the night
Will never ever sound like music
Until the lines can feel the coolness
Of day which brings all things to light.
Гони стихи ночные прочь,
Не надо недоносков духа:
Ведь их воспринимает ночь,
А ночь — плохая повитуха.
Безумец! Если ты и впрямь
Высокого возжаждал пенья,
Превозмоги, переупрямь
Свое минутное кипенье.
Пойми: ночная трескотня
Не станет музыкой, покуда
По строкам не пройдет остуда
Всеобнажающего дня.
«Near Moscow living, I, this winter, / In blizzard, chill, and snow, / On business when it was essential / Always caught the train to town. When I went out on some occasions / The street was black as pitch. / And through the forests dark I scattered / My tread that creaked at every step....»
«1 In the world bellowing: / Glory to the coming! / What whispers in me: / Glory to the gone be! To you, passing, / That won't counted be, / Not bearing children, / Preceding me. With brush, with key / They argued, with deed / Written — pure / Was their life, with honor. White...»
«2 Generation with lilac / And on Easter in Kremlin, / My hello to generation / In the earth to the knee, And with gray spots — in stars! / Than the reed louder, / To you, speaking: "so-ul" / Will tremble the air. Only having saved the soul / From wealth of family / Without brot...»
«Near cloughs a queer grove of sadness / Hides a green hill with all-time haze. / Around - there is a brook's live wetness / That babbles spelling on sweet laze. / Quaint flowers, rare herbs grow over / That fresh green hill but no sun-beam / Can ever get in here, lower, / There's only ...»