A strange alarm weighs on my heart,
Delirium of premonitions.
I look ahead and the road is dark
And perhaps there is no road.
But I cannot touch with any words
What is living in me — and in silence.
I do not dare to feel it:
It's like a dream. A dream within a dream.
O, my incomprehensible alarm!
It's more exhausting day by day.
And I know that the grief on the threshold now,
All that grief is not only for me.
На сердце непонятная тревога,
Предчувствий непонятных бред.
Гляжу вперед — и так темна дорога,
Что, может быть, совсем дороги нет.
Но словом прикоснуться не умею
К живущему во мне — и в тишине.
Я даже чувствовать его не смею:
Оно как сон. Оно как сон во сне.
О, непонятная моя тревога!
Она томительней день ото дня.
И знаю: скорбь, что ныне у порога,
Вся эта скорбь — не только для меня!
«I don’t know if you’re dead or still living, / If I should seek you on earth, or alas, / Sitting pensively, in the evening, / Warmly grieve for the one who has passed. All to you: Daily prayer and thought, / And insomnia’s feverish rise, / The white flock of the poems I wrote, / A...»
«I don't know if you're alive or dead. / Can you on earth be sought, / Or only when the sunsets fade / Be mourned serenely in my thought? All is for you: the daily prayer, / The sleepless heat at night, / And of my verses, the white / Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire. No-one was mor...»
«I'll leave your quiet yard and your white house — / Let life be empty and with light complete. / I'll sing the glory to you in my verse / Like not one woman has sung glory yet. / And that dear girlfriend you remember / In heaven you created for her sight, / I'm trading product that is ...»
«I have not heard the tales of Ossian, / I have not tasted age-old wine — / why then do I seem to see a field / and Scotland's murderous moon? And in the sinister silence I seem to hear / the roll-call of the raven and the harp, / and, streaming in the wind, the scarves of men-at-arms / ...»