Стихотворения

utter my name with sighs, and tell
the silence: «Memory is true —
there beats a heart wherein I dwell».

<1947>

448. WINTER MORNING{*}

A magic day — sunshine and frost —
but you, in dreamland still are lost…
Come, open your enchanting eyes
with honeyed indolence replete....
Star of the North, arise to meet
Aurora in her wintry skies.

That blizzard yesternight! It spread
dimness and tumult overheard.
The moon through a lugubrious veil
was but a blur of jaundiced grey,
and you were listless.... But to-day —
well, let the window tell its tale:

Fabulous carpets of rich snow
under the cloudless heavens glow.
Alone the gauzy birches seem
to show some black, while green occurs
among the frost-bespangled firs,
and blue-shot ice adorns the stream.

The room is flooded with a light
like amber, and with all its might
the hot stove crackles. Lolling there
in meditation is no doubt
enjoyable… but what about
a sledge behind the chestnut mare?

Sweet friend, together we shall speed
yielding to our impatient steed
on new-born whiteness, fleet and free,
and visit silent fields of snow,
woods that were lush two months ago,
a lakeshore that is dear to me…

<1947>

Михаил Лермонтов{*}

449. FAREWELL{*}

Farewell! Nevermore shall we meet,
we shall never touch hands — so farewell!
Your heart is now free, but in none
will it ever be happy to dwell.

One moment together we came:
time eternal is nothing to this!
All senses we suddenly drained,
burned all in the flame of one kiss.

Farewell! And be wise, do not grieve:
our love was too short for regret,
and hard as we found it to part
harder still would it be if we met.

<Ноябрь 1941>

450. MY NATIVE LAND{*}

If I do love my land, strangely I love it:
'tis something reason cannot cure.
Glories of war I do not covet,
but neither peace proud and secure,
not the mysterious past and dim romances
can spur my soul to pleasant fancies.

And still I love thee — why I hardly know:
I love thy fields so coldly meditative,