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18 Jan. 1966

583. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Heмудрено, что не веселым звоном…»

And you, my friends, you who are so few by now— with every passing day you are more dear! How very short the road has grown and how it used to seem of all the longest way!

26 Nov. 1992

584. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Перуджиа

Half a day of toil, and half of ease, azure smoke above the Umbrian hills. Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze, loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills. In the window — one whose dark eyes smile, under Perugino's fresco, there, tries to reach a basket for a while with a sunburnt hand, and does not dare. In it lies a note for eager glances: «Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…»

15 May [1928]

585. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Пройдет зима — увидишь ты…»

When winter goes — then you will see my fields and fens that stretch away. «What beauty!» you will say to me, — «What lifeless slumber!» you will say. But, child, remember, in the still I kept my thoughts, and in that plain I — restless, sorrowful, and ill — Have waited for your soul in vain. And in that dusk I guessed my fate, stared into death's cold face, and long, endlessly long I had to wait, peering through mists that swam along. But you passed by before my face, — among the bogs my thoughts I kept and in my soul a gloomy trace of that strange lifeless beauty slept.

16 May [1928]

586. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Мы шли на Лидо в час рассвета…»

We walked toward Lido once at dawn, the rain was gentle, like a net. Without replying you were gone. And soon I slept beside the wet. I heard the waves, their steady falling, because my sleep was light, I heard the sounds, that shook with passion, calling, loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird. And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, — came down and floated on the sea, upon the waves of song, love-laden, with which you always dwell in me.

12 June [1928]

587. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я просыпался и всходил…»

I've wakened often in the night and peered at stairways darkness-filled. The frosty moon threw silver light upon my house, where all was stilled. I've had no messages of late; the city only brings me round its noise, and every day I wait for guests, and start at every sound. And waked by steps that seemed to pass at midnight more than once I rose and in the window — saw the gas that shimmered in the streets in rows! Today — again I must await my guests, and clench my hands, and fear. I've had no messages of late, knocks is all I hear.