A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

The street lamps shed their meager light,
mist wove its wisps about the town,
a chilly twilight shuttered tight
all windows, drawing curtains down.

Then, growing white, not vapor-soft

but heavy, like a lowered load,
dusk let a fragile hoarfrost waft
onto the sidewalks and the road.

November midnight: winter's eve,

a helpless longing, taut distress
of autumn strings in mute reprieve,
leave-taking, but without redress…

A sketch from nature? — No: the time

was filled with flowers, springlike-bright,
when suddenly the poet's mind
envisioned this November night.

About him warm th and sunlight shone,

young foliage gleamed, birds flitted, gay,
everything bloomed, — his soul alone
had left this blossoming of May.

He roamed along deserted roads,

where street lamps shed their meager light,
where mist in pungent smoke-rings rose,
where hoarfrost tinged sidewalks white.

5 Dec. 1967

650. Василий Сумбатов (1893–1977). Памяти юности [306]

We parted at an early date, —
youth, — in the blackest year of war,
though we had been fast friends before,
still, friendship cannot conquer fate.

Our parting came at night, when skies

were dark above the steppe. Your way
was down the trail to yesterday,
and never once you raised your eyes.

Night quenched the heat, and scattered far

the glare of sunset; and the grass,
its strings by twilight winds harassed,
moaned in the steppe like a guitar.

And from afar I could discern

a voice that sang for me alone
that all my happy days were gone,
that you were never to return.

1967

651. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Куда ни погляжу, везде…» [307]

No matter where I look, I find
dimensions perfect everywhere:
a star is wondrously designed,
crystals are regular and fair.

Foolish, the beating heart, alone,

is not concerned with star or beam;
it will not cease to long and moan,
it's built on quite a different scheme.

[1960s]

652. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Поднимись на высокую гору…» [308]

Climb atop of the loftiest mountain,
gaze about from the peak where you stand
toward the sheen of the sunset in autumn,
and the sweep of the far land.

There is soundless music around you,

contemplation and stillness are deep.
It is evening. Mountain ranges
darken, waiting for quiet and sleep.

[1960s]

653. Марина Цветаева(1892–1941). «Черная, как зрачок, как зрачок сосущая…»