5 Dec. 1967 600. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). «У меня не живут цветы…»[269] Flowers never live in my house, but a minute they soothe the eye, in a couple of days they die; flowers never live in my house. Birds either don't live here long, only ruff their feathers and frown, and by morning — a ball of down… Even birds do not live here long. Only volumes in eight long rows, silent volumes of many pages, guard the languorous thought of ages, like teeth, in eight long rows. The man who sold them to me, I recall, was hunch-backed and poor… …By the graveyard he kept his store, did the man who sold them to me. [1930s] 601. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Свиданье[270] Tonight you will be coming soon, and I will understand why all alone beneath the moon it feels so strange to stand. Pale, you will check your step, and throw away your cape and hood, does not the full moon likewise flow above the somber wood? And by the magic of her ways and by yourself spell-bound, I will be happy — with my days, the dark and stillness round. So in the woods a beast which smells that spring is coming soon the rustling of the hours tells and goes to watch the moon. And softly to the glen he creeps to wake the dreams of night, and with the moon's own movement keeps his step, that's ever light. Like he, I will be speechless too, will look and lose my strength, and guard the solem n seal of you, o, Night, throughout your length! There will be m any shining moons within myself and near, and pallid shores of ancient dunes, alluring, will appear. And from the darkness which unfurls the ocean green that roars will bring me flowers, corals, pearls the gifts of distant shores. And there will be a thousand sighs of creatures dead and far, and somber sleep of silent eyes, and wine from every star. Then you will go, and I will stay to hear the moon's last tune, and see the dawning of the sky above the pallid dune. [1930s] 602. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Покорность Only the tired are worthy of praying to God, only by lovers the meadows of spring may be trod! Soft is the sorrow on earth and the stars in the sky, softly resounded a «yes» — in the darkness to die. This is submissiveness! Come and bend over me now, pale maid, wearing the black mourning-veil on your brow! Sad is my land, in the wilds of the marshes it lies, no land could ever be fairer for sorrowful eyes. Look at the brownish buds and the damp-grown glen, they are what makes me renounce the pleasures of men. Am I in love? Or just weary as never before? Oh, it is good that my eyes do not shine any more! Calmly I look at the wind-blown grass of the plain, calmly I hear in the marshes a bittern complain. [1930s] 603. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Читатель книг Reader of books, I also tried to find my heaven in the knowledge which obeys, I always loved them, — strange ways that wind where neither hope nor reminiscence stays. Into new chapters eagerly to roam, upon the stream of many lines to ride, and watch the growing waves and splashing foam, and listen to the roar of rising tide! But after dusk.. how horrible the shade behind the shelf and icon in the night, and, like a moon that shimmers on the glade, the pendulum — immovable and bright! [1930s] 604. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Портрет мужчины His eyes are hidden underground lakes, forgotten kingly halls, with floors untrod, upon his brow the highest shame makes its mark, and he will never speak of God. His lips — they are a purple wound that's made by poisoned daggers. Early silent grown and overcast with melancholy shade, they ever summon to a joy unknown. His hands are full-moon marble, they are such on which damnation will forever last, for they have crucified and used to touch young sorceresses in the ages past His fate is in the centuries that lapse to be the dream of people who would slay, and of the poets; at his birth, perhaps, a bloody comet melted, far away. Within his soul — age-old offences live, within his soul unnamed sorrow's tarry, his reminiscences he would not give for all the flowers of Cyprid or of Mary. His wrath is not a sacrilegious wrath, and tender hue his silken cheeks maintain. And he can smile, and he can also laugh, but weep… he cannot ever weep again. вернуться From the collection Жемчуга (1910; 1918). вернуться From the collection Жемчуга (1910; 1918). |
