A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - [63]
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and gave Jinna beads instead.
She went with sidi, along his track,
«Nagua, coward», she said.
[1930s]
573. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Чернеет дорога приморского сада»
Black road of the garden upon the shore,
bright lanterns along the rim.
And I am so calm. Only never more
should anyone speak of him.
You're sweet and so faithful, and you and I
will kiss, like friends, as we go
our way, and the months will lightly fly
above us, like stars of snow.
20 Sept. [1920s]
574. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Широк и желт вечерний свет…»
Bright yellow is the twilight glow,
and tender is the April chill.
You should have come ten years ago,
but I am glad to see you still.
Come here, sit down, and nearer me,
and look at me with merrv stare.
This copy-book that's blue, you see,—
I wrote my childish poems there.
Forgive me that I lived in grief,
rejoiced not in the sun, and, too,
forgive, forgive my old belief
that scores who came before — were you.
[1930s]
575. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Разлука
In twilight shadows sloping
my road is stretched ahead.
Last night, still loving, hoping,
«Remember me», he said.
And now — but breezes blowing,
and cries of shepherds ring,
and shaken cedars, growing
beside the limpid spring.
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!
Good morning!
[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.
And what of now?
[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,