A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

I am more restless than another still, —
a word that's said with casual caress,
a furtive glance — still send through me a thrill,
alike a tender glance or vivid dress.

And even yet to me it is a pleasure

to… a fancy, strange and far away
to suffer from a rime, at times to measure
emotion, caught by chance upon the way

But every day the soul does stricter get,

obeys the ray that moves not, and I feel
that I will teach that same emotion yet,
though that same rime to be of sadless zeal

And soon, I know, — thanks to the God who takes

us onward with a wisdom-guided palm, —
we will exchange anxiety that aches
for heavenly and light-abounding calm.

11 June 1930

629. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «К чему стихи? Уже и так от них…»

More verse? What for? Already from their curse
the soul is sad, as unsuccessful verse.
Already, when I barely close my eyes —
comparisons to you before me rise.

You are w o ndrous than a rose, and, too,

more tender than my tenderness for you,
or you are sad, a drooping willow tree,
or toiling, as a love-abounding bee,

or else you dream — and in that mood you stay

to me more puzzling than a gloomy day.
Our life is plain, less visible by far:
and you are worse — yet better loved you are.

ca. 20 Aug. [1930]

630. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «За окном морозная луна…»

То Katherine Garon

Out-of-doors — the murky winter light,
frosty moon, and stillness of the night.
Hut your window has been covered long
with a screen, reliable and strong.

Out-of-doors, above the house and tower

fearful is the moon this chosen hour.
Yet you sleep, the moon you do not heed:
you are dreaming other dreams indeed.

Out-of doors, beneath the moonlight glow,

stubborn guard, I wander to and fro.
But it is not joys of love that fill
your illusions in the midnight still.

[1930]

631. Ирина Одоевцева (1895–1990). «Скользит слеза из-под усталых век…» [288]

То М.Кгuzenshtern

From tired lid, a tear crawls down my cheek.
Coins jangle on the church collection tray.
No matter what we pray for, what we seek,
it's always for a miracle we pray.

That two times two make five instead of four,

and straw would turn into a rose in bloom,
that I be home, in my own house, once more,
though there is no such thing as house or home.

That from the churchyard mound where grasses sway

you suddenly step out, alive and gay.

[1970s]

632. Валерий Перелешин (1913–1992). Неизбежное [289]