[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…»
15 May [1928]
585. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Пройдет зима — увидишь ты…»
When winter goes — then you will see
my fields and fens that stretch away.
«What beauty!» you will say to me,
— «What lifeless slumber!» you will say.
But, child, remember, in the still
I kept my thoughts, and in that plain
I — restless, sorrowful, and ill —
Have waited for your soul in vain.
And in that dusk I guessed my fate,
stared into death's cold face, and long,
endlessly long I had to wait,
peering through mists that swam along.
But you passed by before my face,
— among the bogs my thoughts I kept
and in my soul a gloomy trace
of that strange lifeless beauty slept.
16 May [1928]
586. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Мы шли на Лидо в час рассвета…»[265]
We walked toward Lido once at dawn,
the rain was gentle, like a net.
Without replying you were gone.
And soon I slept beside the wet.
I heard the waves, their steady falling,
because my sleep was light, I heard
the sounds, that shook with passion, calling,
loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird.
And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, —
came down and floated on the sea,
upon the waves of song, love-laden,
with which you always dwell in me.
12 June [1928]
587. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я просыпался и всходил…»
I've wakened often in the night
and peered at stairways darkness-filled.
The frosty moon threw silver light
upon my house, where all was stilled.
I've had no messages of late;
the city only brings me round
its noise, and every day I wait
for guests, and start at every sound.
And waked by steps that seemed to pass
at midnight more than once I rose
and in the window — saw the gas
that shimmered in the streets in rows!
Today — again I must await
my guests, and clench my hands, and fear.
I've had no messages of late,
knocks is all I hear.
12 June [1928]
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264
Variant in the eighth line in the manuscript: "with a tawny brown hand, and does not dare."
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265
Mary Vezey's "(??)" in the eighth line presumably indicates a search for a better word.