It seems as though the voice of manWill never sound in this place,But only wind from age of stoneIs knocking on black gates.It seems to me that I aloneHave kept good health under this sky,Because of this, that first I soughtTo drink the deadly wine.Parting, Evening and slanting,Downward goes my way.Yesterday in love still,"Don't forget" you prayed.Now there's only shepherds'Cry, and glancing winds,And the worried cedarsStand by clear springs.

This way I prayed: "Slake the dumb thirstOf singing with a sweet libation!"But to the earthling of the earthThere can be no liberation.Like smoke from sacrifice, that it could notFly Strength- and Glory-ward -- alas -But only clouded at the feetAnd, as if praying, kissed the grass.Thus I, O Lord, before thee bow:Will reach the fire of the skyMy lashes that are closed for nowAnd muteness utter and divine?

In intimacy there exists a lineThat can't be crossed by passion or love's art --In awful silence lips melt into oneAnd out of love to pieces bursts the heart.And friendship here is impotent, and yearsOf happiness sublime in fire aglow,When soul is free and does not hearThe dulling of sweet passion, long and slow.Those who are striving toward it are in fever,But those that reach it struck with woe that lingers.Now you have understood, why foreverMy heart does not beat underneath your fingers.

Before the spring arrives there are such days:Under the thick snow cover rests the lawn,The dry-and-jolly trees are making noise,Tender and strong, the wind is warm.And body is amazed at its own lightness,And your own home is alien to you,And song that had just previously been tiringWith worry you are singing just like new.

I will lead a man to dear one --I don't want the little joy --And I'll quietly lay to sleepThe glad, tired little boy.In a chilly room once moreI will pray to Mother of God,It is hard to be a hermit,To be happy is also hard.Only fiery sleep will come to me,I'll enter a temple on the hill,Five-domed, white, and stone-hewn,On the paths remembered well.

Divine angel, who betrothed usSecretly on winter morn,From our sadness-free existenceDoes not take his darkened eyes.For this reason we love sky,And fresh wind, and air so thin,And the dark tree branchesBehind fence of iron.For this reason we love the strict,Many-watered, and dark city,And we love the parting,And brief meetings' hour.

How can you look at Nieva,How can on the bridges you rise?With a reason I'm sad since the timeYou appeared before my eyes.Sharp are black angels' wings,The last judgment is coming soon,And raspberry fires, like roses,In the white snow bloom.

I see capital through the flurryOn this Monday night twenty-first.Some do-nothing has made up the storyThat love exists on the earth.And from laziness or from boredomAll believed, and thus they live:Wait for meeting, fear the parting,And sing songs of love.But to others opens a secretAnd upon them descends a still.I by accident came upon thisAnd since then am as if I'm ill.

God is unkind to gardeners and reapers.Slanted rain coils and falls from up highAnd the wide raincoats catch water,That once had reflected the sky.In underwater realm are fields and meadowsAnd the free currents sing a lot,Plums rupture on bloated branchesAnd grass strands, lying down, rot.And through the dense and watery netI see your darling face,A quiet park, a round porchAnd a Chinese arbour-place.