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[1960s]

609. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). «Оттого и томит меня шорох травы…»

I am filled with a sadness by whispering grass — it will wither, and roses will die and decay, and your own precious body will also, alas, be changed into flowers, and turned into clay. All memory of us will vanish. And then skilled fingers will fashion a beautiful thing, a pitcher of clay, which will live once again and be filled to its wide golden throat at spring. And someone, perhaps, by the well where they meet embracing each other, with sunset aglow, will drop that dear clay, which will slip to her feet and ring as it breaks into fragments below.

[1960s]

610. Лазарь Кельберин (1907–1975). «Когда пятнистая луна…»

At times when the spotted moon with torn and ragged clouds is strewn; at times when in the city stream the isle of dead its last does dream, and every leaf on every tree is full of spring impurity, — then, hiding in the twilight thick, a man will make his step more quick, and hasten from that road and past where crosses come to life and stare, and on one's breath a shadow cast from rocky height that rise up there… — There by the cemetery wall, you stood with me, — do you recall? And fresher than a mountain stream the April kiss to us did seem.

20 May [1930s]

611. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Ангелу-хранителю

From my childhood, you were always near me— in a woman's tender first embrace, in the floor that bore my infant footsteps, in the first warm sunlight on my face. After that, you always walked beside me, gave me Paris in the month of May, Andalusian gardens, Roman sunrise, — speaking Russian all along my way. Then, I thought — not knowing you were with me — that it was myself I used to hear; there was too much noise and too much gladness drowning out all else in my young ear. It is only now, when all is quiet, that I have been able to divine finally, the voice — in all the stillness — which I long ago mistook for mine. Now I know: if ever I was worthy in this life, from very early youth; if at any time my earthly falsehood had in any way resembled truth; if I kissed a woman without wounding, felt a flower, and it never died, — it was all because you leaned to touch me, all because you never left my side. And of all the things you did, the wisest was that all day long till night would fall you were always able to protect me from myself, most dangerous of all.