Читать «A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений» онлайн - страница 43

1929

138. Winds From Afar Did Bring. Alexander Blok

Winds from afar did bring hints of a song of spring. Patches of sky somewhere open their depth and glare. There in the azure deep — twilight of spring that's near — tempests of winter sweep, starry visions appear. Timidly weep my strings, somber and deep they are. Resonant wind, that brings songs you sing from afar.

1929

139. «The glamour of a death when crowds assemble…»

W.F.

The glamour of a death when crowds assemble women and men, who hide their eyes to weep, — the prayerfulness of death, when organs tremble, wrenching a groan from out their very deep — Ribboned and gilded wreaths and marble benches, where all the dead one's friends will talk so much about their dead, until existence quenches the sudden gap, — your death was not of such. Nothing to say, in no one to confide. Flowers that grow a-plenty on the lawn where you have walked — I know those flowers sighed because a face they used to see was gone. Crossing the murky sky from shore to shore, you came and went, a golden meteor, and all that's left of my predestined path will be a long and useless aftermath.

1927

140. «В одном моем привычном сне…»

В одном моем привычном сне есть место странное такое, в залитой солнцем тишине, и ничем не тронутом покое: травой покрытая гора, и в даль идут другие горы, и облака из серебра выводят по небу узоры. И я на склоне там стою, не знаю, плачу или рада, — что в том задумчивом краю мне никого уже не надо.

1929

141. Deep in the Shade There Is a Hill. Alexander Blok

Deep in the shade there is a hill, close by a canyon, in the wood, and near it bubbling waters fill the shadow's with an idle mood. Green grass and flowers grow about the hill, and never is the sun allowed to enter from without. The quiet waters only run. Fond lovers, hiding, never meet too near that cool and dusky nook. — Why do those flowers blow so sweet? and why is always fresh that brook? There, there my suffering of years lies deep below the roots and weeds, and with eternal, constant tears, Ophelia, your flowers feeds.