452. THE ANGEL{*}

An angel was crossing the pale vault of night,    and his song was as soft as his flight, and the moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng    stood enthralled by this holy song. He sang of the bliss of the innocent shades    in the depths of celestial glades; he sang of the Sovereign Being, and free    of guile was his eulogy. He carried a soul in his arms, a young life    to the world of sorrow and strife, and the young soul retained the throb of that song    — without words, but vivid and strong. And tied to this planet long did it pine    full of yearnings dimly divine, and our dull little ditties could never replace    songs belonging to infinite space. <Весна 1946>

453. THE SAIL{*}

Amid the blue haze of the ocean a sail is passing, white and frail. What do you seek in a far country? What have you left at home, lone sail? The billows play, the breezes whistle, and rhythmically creaks the mast. Alas, you seek no happy future, nor do you flee a happy past. Below the mirrored azure brightens, above the golden rays increase — but you, wild rover, pray for tempests, as if in tempests there were peace. <Весна 1946>

454. THE ROCK{*}

The little golden cloud that spent the night upon the breast of yon great rock, next day rose early and in haste pursued its way eager to gambol in the azure light. A humid trace, however, did remain within a wrinkle of the rock. Alone and wrapt in thought, the old gentle stone sheds silent tears above the empty plain. <Весна 1946>

455. IMITATION OF HEINE{*}

A pine there stands in the northern wilds    alone on a barren bluff, swaying and dreaming and clothed by the snow    in a cloak of the finest fluff — dreaming a dream of a distant waste,    a country of sun-flushed sands where all forlorn on torrid cliff    a lovely palm tree stands. <Весна 1946>

456. THANKSGIVING{*}

For everything, for everything, О Lord, I thank Thee — for the secret pangs of passions, the poisoned fangs of kisses, the bitter taste of tears; for the revenge of foes and for the calumny of friends, and for the waste of a soul's fervor burning in a desert, and for all things that have deceived me here. But please, О Lord, henceforth let matters be arranged in such a way that I need not keep thanking Thee much longer <Ноябрь 1946>

457. THE SKY AND THE STARS{*}

Fair is the evening sky, clear are the stars in the distance, as clear as the joy of an infant. Oh, why can't I tell myself even in thought: The stars are as clear as my joy! What is your trouble — people might query. Just this is my trouble, excellent people: the sky and the stars are the stars and the sky, whereas I am a man. People are envious of one another. I, on the contrary, — only the beautiful stars do I envy, only to be in their place do I wish. <1947>

458. THE WISH{*}

Open the door of my prison, let me see the daylight again, give me a black-eyed maiden and a horse with a jet-black mane. Over the wide blue grassland let that courser carry me, and just once, just a little closer, let me glance at that alien portion — that life and that liberty. Give me a leaky sailboat with a bench of half-rotten wood and a well-worn sail all hoary from the tempests it has withstood. Then I shall launch on my voyage, friendless and therefore free, and shall have my fling in the open and delight in the mighty struggle with the savage whim of the sea. Give me a lofty palace with an arbour all around where amber grapes would ripen and the broad shade fleck the ground. Let an ever-purling fountain among marble pillars play and lull me to sleep and wake me in a halo of heavenly visions and the cool dust of its spray. <1947> вернутьсявернутьсявернутьсявернутьсявернутьсявернутьсявернуться