Through the consoling April sun
the breeze, so very unconsoling,
a sandy whirlwind on the road —
shutting up the chattering starling.
Up above the northern latitudes,
dark grey clouds are bulking high.
Bowler hats get pulled down tight —
but these two dandies let theirs fly.
And under the noise of the rumbling hail,
the proud and wicked heart revives:
«That's our very own lightning-crack,
the wingbeat as our spring arrives!»
Сквозь уютное солнце апреля —
Неуютный такой холодок.
И — смерчом по дорожке песок,
И — смолкает скворец-пустомеля.
Там над северным краем земли
Черно-серая вздутая туча.
Котелки поплотней нахлобуча,
Попроворней два франта пошли.
И под шум градобойного гула —
В сердце гордом, веселом и злом:
«Это молнии нашей излом,
Это наша весна допорхнула!»
«Your stripe will be harvested / By which person's arms? / O the black magician you! / My black-plaited one! Your tumultuous century, / And your midnight days... / All your little workers are / At once born away. Where are your campaigner friends, / Your comrades in arms? / O the b...»
«S E Brothers! In the last hour / Of year — after our / Russian land, living in us! / Exactly twelve times / Mug to mug! After the rabble of honor, / After Taman, after Kuban, / After our Russian Don, / Jordan of old faith... Once more, / Mug to mug! Comrades! / Alive still i...»
«When horses die, they breathe / When grasses die, they wither, / When suns die, they go out, / When people die, they sing songs.»
«I hate the roar of giant cities, neighborhoods, / I am repulsed by crowd commotion, / My spirit lives in depths of woods, / Where in secluded calm devotion / I hark to music of unseen sweet voices' moods, / ...»