A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Above the restaurants, at twilight,
where drunken shouts and laughter ring,
the hot and putrid air is governed
bv the impurities of spring.

Above the dull suburban houses,

above the dust of narrow streets,
a gilded signboard faintly glitters,
and infant's distant cry repeats.

And every night, amidst the ditches,

their bowlers jauntily pushed back,
the city wits parade their ladies
in fields beyond the railway track.

Above the lake the squeak of oarlocks

mingles with women's muffled screams,
while in sky, surprised at nothing,
the stupid disk forever beams.

And nightly, in my glass reflected,

my solitary friend I see,
by this mysterious tangy potion
subdued and quieted, like me;

while next to us, at other tables,

waiters look sleepily about,
and drinkers, with their reddened eyelids,
«In vino veritas!» will shout.

And nightly, at the hour appointed

(or do I dream that she exists?)
a woman's form, in gleaming satins,
moves in the window through the mists.

And slowly walking past the drinkers,

without an escort, as before,
wafting a breath of mist and perfume,
she finds a seat beside the door.

The shining satin tight about her

of strange and ancient legend sings,
and so her hat, with mourning plumage,
and slender hand with many rings.

And caught within this sudden nearness,

I gaze beyond her somber veil,
and there enchanted shores discover,
a faraway enchanted trail.

With someone's secret I am trusted,

a sun is given me to keep.
Throughout the fissures of my soul
the tangy wine begins to seep.

Those ostrich feathers, dimly drooping,

rock in my brain forever more.
Blue eyes, so deep they have no bottom,
now blossom on a distant shore.

Within my heart there lies a treasure,

and I possess the key, alone!
You speak the truth, oh drunken monster:
«In vino veritas» — I own.

[1929]

591. Александр Блок (1880–1921). Эпитафия Фра Филиппо Липпи [266]

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…» [267]