My unglorious day is waning,
Finally the end has come…
Oh, my ash-tree ice! My verses,
Light-transparent frigid ones!
I do not intend to leave my
Useless goods to anyone.
I shine up the crystal and the
Silver for myself alone.
And my icon lamp is burning,
Getting rosy from inside…
Well, and you who do not need it,
From my feast just hide your eyes…
It’s the arctic here. With reason
I keep warm as daylight wanes
With this secret heat, emitted
From a glassy-surfaced blaze.
На исходе день невзрачный,
Наконец, пришел конец...
Мой холодный, мой прозрачный,
Стих мой, лед-ясенец!
Никому не завещаю
Я ненужное добро.
Для себя лишь засвечаю
Хрустали и серебро, —
И горит моя лампада,
Розовея изнутри...
Ну а ты, кому не надо,
Ты на пир мой не смотри...
Здесь полярный круг. Недаром
Греюсь на исходе дня
Этим сокровенным жаром
Застекленного огня.
«In the darkness and still of a mysterious night / I see a fond and welcoming spark, / From the chorus of spheres, familiar eyes / Shine upon a grave forgotten in the steppe. The grass has faded, the desert is grim, / A lonely tomb dreams an orphan's dream, / And only in the sky, like an e...»
«I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid. — With effort / I reach my hands out and I call / For help. Yes, I recall the tortures / Of dying. — Yes, this is no dream! — / And without effort, like a spider web / I push aside my casket's rotting wood And stand. How bright the winter light appea...»
«When you were reading those tormented lines / In which the heart's resonant flame sends out glowing streams / And passion's fatal torrents rear up, — / Didn't you recall a single thing? I can't believe it! That night on the steppe / When, in the midnight mist a premature dawn, / Transpa...»
«While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling / Where, teasing my imagination, / A circle hangs above the quiet lamp, / And spins just like a ghostly shadow. Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset: / As if, above the rooftop and the garden, / Unable to fly off, afraid...»