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[1929]

591. Александр Блок (1880–1921). Эпитафия Фра Филиппо Липпи

Here I am resting, Filippo, artist forever immortal, the wonderful charm of my paint brush is on everyone's lips into the paints I was able to breathe with my fingers a soul, souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord. Even Nature herself, looking at what I created had to admit that I was artisan equal to her. Here in this marble I was rested by Lawrence Medici, ere I would be turned into lowliest dust.

23 May 1930

592. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Грустно плача и смеясь…»

In ringing streams my poems go, weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly bound before you, on, and every one weaves living strings, as on they flow and do not know their banks around. But through the crystals running by you are as ever far from me… The crystals sing along and cry… How can I make your traits, that I may have you come to visit me from where en chanted countries lie?

[1960s]

593. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Из ничего — фонтаном синим…»

From nowhere, like a fountain blue a light flashed on. We turn our heads up, I and you, and it is gone, above the blackness yonder, throwing a golden mop, and here — one more, in spirals going, a ball, a top, green, yellow, red and blue again — all night aglow… And, having wakened it in vain, they go.