Wide acres you inherit,
And graveyards populous;
A tameless nomad spirit
Is Beauty’s fate for us.
For us a daily treason,
New camp-grounds every day.
The inexorable prison
We cheat, and break away.
Trust in each shrouded story.
Each far-off marvel’s prize.
The springtime’s emerald glory,
The length and breadth of skies.
Artists, with dreams for horses.
Pasture them all around!
Escape! Sow with new forces.
Then fly the fallow ground.
Hurl from your flooding numbers
Your hordes in hurricanes
Where the low valley slumbers
And slaves are proud of chains.
Trample their paradises,
Attila I Waste anew!
And where your bright star rises,
The steppe will bud for you!
Кочевники Красоты — вы, художники.
*** «Пламенники»
Вам — пращуров деревья
И кладбищ теснота!
Нам вольные кочевья
Судила Красота.
Вседневная измена,
Вседневный новый стан:
Безвыходного плена
Блуждающий обман.
О, верьте далей чуду
И сказке всех завес,
Всех весен изумруду,
Всей широте небес!
Художники, пасите
Грез ваших табуны;
Минуя, всколосите —
И киньте — целины!
И с вашего раздолья
Низриньтесь вихрем орд
На нивы подневолья,
Где раб упрягом горд.
Топчи их рай, Аттила, —
И новью пустоты
Взойдут твои светила,
Твоих степей цветы!
«Two threads, together braided, / With bare ends, not combined, / Those “yes” and “no” are plaited, / Disjoined, but intertwine. / In dark and dead entwinement, / Packed tightly, idle then, / Just waiting for revival. / Revival waits for them. / Some “yes” and “no”, em...»
«Beyond the window, it’s still bright, / Through cloud gaps, the Sun there glitters. / Wings in the sand shake in delight: / A sparrow, wallowing, now flitters. Onto the ground, down from the skies, / A pall is moving with a tremble / Beyond, the forest margin lies / As if in gold dust...»
«By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered; / On his breast it slept, but, riseing early, / Off it gently rushed across the pearly / Blue of sky, a tiny thing and winged. Still, a trace it left upon the stony / Giant's heart, and plunged in thought and weeping / Slow and tortured tears, he s...»
«Clouds in the skies above, heavenly wanderers, / Long strings of snowy pearls stretched over azure plains! / Exiles like I, you rush farther and farther on, / Leaving my dear North, go distances measureless. What drives you southward? Is't envy that covertly / Prods you or malice whose arro...»