X x x
In the sleep to me is given
Our last eden of stars up high
City of clean water towers,
There behind a colored fencing
By the pensive water stalled
Village of the Tsar’s gardens
With rejoicing we recalled.
And the eagles of Catherine
Suddenly recognized – it’s that!
He had flown to valley bottom
From the ornate bronze-clad gate.
That the song of parting heartache
In the memory longer lives,
The dark-bodied mother autumn
Brought to me the redding leaves
And she sprinkled on her soles
Where we parted in the sun
And from where for land of shadows
You had left, my soothing one.
X x x
I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk,
Meadow circular, water dead,
With most heavy and most shady,
All of this I will never forget.
In the cast-iron gates you will enter,
Blissful tremor the flesh does rile,
You don’t live, but you’re screaming and ranting
Or you live in another style.
In late autumn fresh and biting
Wanders wind, for its loneliness glad.
In white gowns dressed the black fir trees
On the molten snow stand.
And, filled up with a burning fever,
Dear voice sounds like song without word,
And on copper shoulder of Cytharus
Sits the red-chested bird.
X x x
Immortelle’s dry and pink. On the fresh heaven
The clouds are roughly pasted, almost dark.
The leaves of only oak within the park
Are still colorless and thin.
The rays of dusk are burning until midnight.
How nice it is inside my cramped abode!
Today with me converse many-a-bird
About the most tender, in delight.
I’m happy. But the way,
Forest and smooth, is to me most dear,
The crippled bridge, curved a bit here,
And that remain only several days.
X x x
She came up. I did not show my worry,
Calmly looking outside the windows.
She sat down, like ceramic idol
In a long-ago-chosen pose.
To be happy – is well-accustomed,
But attentive – is harder just might.
Or the dark shadow has been overpowered
After many a jasmine March night?
Tiring din of the conversations,
Yellow chandelier’s lifeless light
And the glimmer of crafty gadgets
Underneath the arm raised and light.
My companion looks at her with hope
And to her flashes a smile..
O my happy and wealthy heir,
Read from my will.
* III *
Upon fresh ground falls and melts
At once unnoticed a thin film.
The harsh and chilly spring
The ripened buds does kill.
Sight of early death is so horrid
That I can’t look at God’s creation, and am riven
With sadness, to which king David
Millenia of life has given.
X x x
Why do you pretend to be
A wind, a bird, or a stone?
Why do you smile at me
From the sky with a sudden dawn?
Do not torment me, do not touch!
Leave me to wise cares, away!
The inebriated flame sways
Over dried-up marshes gray.
And Muse in a torn kerchief
Sings disconsolate and at length.
In harsh and youthful anguish
Is her miraculous strength.
X x x
Transparent glass of empty sky
The bleached-out bulky prison building
And churchgoers’ solemn singing
Over Volkhov, growing blue with light.
September wind tore leaves birch off
Through branches tossed and screamed with hate
And city recollects its fate:
Here ruled Martha and Arackcheyev.
Smells like burning. For four weeks now
The dry ground on the swamplands bakes.
Today even birds did not sing songs
And the aspen-tree does not shake.