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.
[1930s]
605. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Орел
The eagle flew ahead and toward the height,
through starry gateways to the Powers' Throne,
and full of beauty was his kingly flight,
and in the sun his brown feathers shone.
Where had he lived? Perhaps it was a King
who kept him chained, a prisoner, till now,
and he had cried to greet the maiden-spring,
that loved a prince with melancholy brow.
Or maybe in a wizard's gloomy den
when he was looking out the narrow door
the height above enchanted him and then
turned to a sun what was a heart before.
What matters that? The perfect azure heights
unfolded, ever luring him ahead
and ever on he flew, three days and nights
till in his bliss he smothered and was dead.
(…)
Rays of the planets pierced the heavens through
magnificent, divinely frozen rays,
but, never knowing perish, on he flew
and watched those planets with a lifeless gaze.
And more than once worlds tumbled, making room
for more, and the archangel's trumpet came,
and yet alone the eagle's gorgeous tomb
did never fall a victim of the game.
16 July [1930]
606. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Душа и тело[271]
I
Above the city night is soaring, till
each sound grows softer, duller every chord.
And you, my soul, are keeping silence still,
have mercy for the souls of marble, Lord.
And to this speech my soul did answer give
(as though a harp was singing in the skies):
«Why was I ever made to come and live
within this hum an frame, which I despise?
I hastened towards a glory new and rich,
leaving my home; I must have been insane,
for me this earth is now a ball, to which
the prisoner is fastened with a chain.
вернуться
271
Unfinished translation from the collection Огненный столп (1921). Variant in the last line second stanza of part three in the manuscript: «that bays the moon when it is bright on high». Igdraziclass="underline" a gigantic ash-tree, which in ancient Spain symbolized the universe