21 Sept. [1930s] 576. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Теперь никто не станет слушать песен…» None want to hear my songs now as of yore, the days that were foretold have come to be. My last, the world is wonderful no more stop ringing, do not rend my heart in me. But recently, you flew above the land free as a swallow every morning gay and now — а hungry beggar, you will stand no gate will open, though you knock all day. [1930s] 577. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Подушка уже горяча…» The pillow on either side is hot, and burning low the second candle has died, while the crow caws ever louder outside. I haven't slept all night, it's late to try in vain. How unbearably white the diapes on the white window-pane! [1960s] 578. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966).«Сказал, что у меня соперниц нет…» Не said I had no rivals, said that I was not an earthly woman, but to him the solace of a winter sun, the wild song of our native country, like a hymn. And when I die, I know he will not grieve crying «Come back!» madly, as from a wrong, but suddenly see — the body cannot live without the sun, the soul — without a song. [1960s] 579. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Из памяти твоей я выну этот день…» Out of your memory I'll snatch this day, so vou will question, lost, with helpless eyes, «Where did I see the little wooden house, the Persian lilac, swallows in the sky?» The sudden longing of unnamed desires oh, very often you will call to mind, searching in pensive cities for a street uncharted on whatever map you find. Sight of some letter you did not expect — sound of a voice at some half-opened gate — and you'll be thinking, «Here she is herself, coming to help me in my faithless state». [1960s] 580. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Cadran solaire на Меньшиковом доме A steamer passes churning up a wake. Familiar house with its cadran solaire. Spires gleaming, and reflections of these waves— nothing on all the Earth to me more fair! A narrow alley darkens like a crack. Sparrows alight upon a wire to rest. Even the salty taste of many strolls memorized long ago — is also blessed. [1960s]
581. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Муза ушла по дороге…» The muse walked away up the trail, autumnal, narrow and steep. Large dewdrops were sprinkled over her dusky legs and feet. I'd begged her to wait till winter, to stay with through the fall. But she answered, «This is a grave here, How can you breathe at all?» I wanted to give her a present — the whitest dove I possessed — but the bird flew off on its own after my shapely guest. I watched her go. I was silent. She was my only love. And like a gate to her country The dawm was shining above. [1960s] 582. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Почернел, искривился бревенчатый мост…» Bent and blackened the logs of the bridge's span and burdocks grow as tall as man and, dense, the thickets of nettles sing that they never will know a sickle's sting. There's a sigh at the lake when evening falls and wrinkled moss creeps over the walls. That's where I greeted my twenty-first spring. To my lips the pungent honey was the sweetest thing. Dry branches shredded that white silk dress of mine. A nightingale sang on and on in the crooked pine. He would hear me calling and would leave his lair, gentler than a sister, though wild as a bear. I would swim across the rivulet, run uphill, but oh, later I would never say «Leave me now, go». 18 Jan. 1966 583. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Heмудрено, что не веселым звоном…»[263] And you, my friends, you who are so few by now— with every passing day you are more dear! How very short the road has grown and how it used to seem of all the longest way! 26 Nov. 1992 584. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Перуджиа[264] Half a day of toil, and half of ease, azure smoke above the Umbrian hills. Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze, loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills. In the window — one whose dark eyes smile, under Perugino's fresco, there, tries to reach a basket for a while with a sunburnt hand, and does not dare. In it lies a note for eager glances: «Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…» вернуться Translation of the second stanza. Variant in the last line: «the very longest way!» вернуться Variant in the eighth line in the manuscript: "with a tawny brown hand, and does not dare." |
