The Right Way
Birth of the word is by agony molded,
Through earthly life it is quietly going,
It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden
Pitcher the drops of the savages’ mourning.
Go to Nature! The Nature is hostile,
All here is frightening, all is in fullness,
There are the trumpets here, singing the docile
Psalms to the Lord, apathetic and useless.
Death? But before you must weight with exactness,
This tale of poets, and be very clever –
You won’t be sorry for light and life’s greatness
But – for a thought which is reigning forever.
There is the way that is high and severe:
Bitterly cry with the winds, wild and bitter,
Live with the beggars in dens of a bear,
Frame the dark dreams in a mold of the meter.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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The Gates of Paradise
The eternal entrance into Eden
Is not locked with seven precious seals;
It has no charms nor light of heaven,
And the people don't know that it is.
It's a doorway in a wall forgotten --
Stones, moss and nothing more else,
Near stands a beggar; and the rotten,
Keys are hanging at his gaudy waist.
Paladins ride by in agitation,
Trumpets wail, and minted silver chant;
Nobody spares his attention
To the Peter -- the Apostle, the saint.
They dream: There, by Sepulchre of Savor,
Paradise will open doors for us;
At the footing of the Mount Thabor
The committed hour will thrust.
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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She
I know her, her bitter silence,
Her tiredness of her words and cries,
Lives in the secret changing brightness
Of widened pupils of her eyes.
Her heart is opened with craving
Only to music of the verse,
Before the life of joy and playing,
She stands aloof and won’t converse.
Her steps aren’t heard or ever hurried:
They’re quiet, oddly smooth and fine,
She can’t be called a beauty, starry,
But keeps all happiness of mine.
And, if I might be selfish ever,
Or brave and proud, as I could –
I’ll learn the pain, so sweet and clever,
In her delirious, dreamy mood.
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Three Wives Of A Mandarin
Lawful wife.
There is still some wine left in the chalice,
And the plate that’s served is nests of the swallows.
Since the birth of time, the legal spouse
Is respected by her mandarin-husband.
Concubine
There is still some wine left in the chalice,
And the plate is served – duck: fat and heavy;
Should a mandarin be deprived of children -
Concubine is needed for a mandarin.
Maid
There is still some wine left in the chalice,
And the plate is served - preserves and marmalade.
Why the two of you are in his house?
Every night a new woman he desires.
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Shame
May be, in my previous a-being,
I’ve cut the throats of my Mom and Dad,
If in this one – Lord of all the living! --
I have been doomed to suffering like that.
If I call for dogs of mine, aloud,
Or just try my own horse to see,
Not obeying all my signs and shouts,
They would promptly run away from me.
If I come to the enchanting foam
Of my native and well-known sea,
Then the sea would blacken from the woe
And fast go back, away from me.
My day looks like looks a man extinguished,
And my work – like somebody’s else strife,
Mine – is only pine of undistinguished,
Non-platonic and unworthy love.
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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To the People Of the Future
This single link was else respected
By people of the days that gone –
There’s written on its tablet sacred
That Love and Life is one.
But you’re not they, you live like arrows
Of dreams that fly through skies and earth,
And in your flight, unite, my fellows,
The Love and Death.
They said in their pledge eternal
That they are slaves of the bad past,
That they were born in dust infernal,
And will return again to dust.
Your heedless brightness was aroused
By songs of lyre, mad and fine,
Eternity will be your spouse,
The world – a shrine.
All folk were utterly believing
That they must live and love with smiles,
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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The Trees
I know: to the trees, but not to us,
Perfection of the life is given, whole.
And on the Earth – the sister of the stars –
We live in exile, while they do at home.
In latest falls, in sad and empty fields,
The red-brass dawns and amber-clad sunrises
Teach to the hues, dissolved in thinnest films,
These people – green and free forever masses.
Moses exists among these oaks, tall,
And Mary, too – among the palms for ages …
Their souls send to the others quiet calls
With waters, run in darkness, void of edges.
While polishing and brushing stony gems,
And grinding rocks, the springs babble in a chore:
They sing a song, or mourn a broken elm,
Or praise the leaves, which dressed a sycamore.
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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My Thoughts
Why did you come, my thoughts, in instant,
Like thieves to rob my quiet habitation,
Like vultures, gloomy and malignant,
With thirst for dread retaliation.
My hopes are gone, and ran away my visions,
My eyes were opened by fierce agitation,
And, in the sacred books of new religions,
I read my words, my deals and plans for future actions.
For that, that I with looks so calm and quiet,
Watched them who sailed to victory and glory,
That with my lips I touched the lips in fire,
Which did not have the former sinning story,
That those hands of mine, my own fingers,
Didn’t know a plough, were so thin and pliant,
And that my songs, the rambling meistersingers,
Could only sing, while making a sad sound,
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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My Thoughts
Why did you come, my thoughts, in instant,
Like thieves to rob my quiet habitation,
Like vultures, gloomy and malignant,
With thirst for dread retaliation.
My hopes are gone, and ran away my visions,
My eyes were opened by fierce agitation,
And, in the sacred books of new religions,
I read my words, my deals and plans for future actions.
For that, that I with looks so calm and quiet,
Watched them who sailed to victory and glory,
That with my lips I touched the lips in fire,
Which did not have the former sinning story,
That those hands of mine, my own fingers,
Didn’t know a plough, were so thin and pliant,
And that my songs, the rambling meistersingers,
Could only sing, while making a sad sound,
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Laos
Dear girl, your cheeks are soft and tender,
And your breasts, like little hills, are slender,
Fall in love with me and from this instance
We will never live apart in distance.
My piragua, we will board together,
And the wind will set our sail untethered.
Should you wish to ride an elephant, dear,
I will be your loyal karnak there.
Should you turn into the moon one evening,
I’ll become a cloud so to be near you.
Should you be liana of the jungle
I will turn into a bird or a monkey.
On the mountain peak you climb, my dear,
Looking into the abyss with awe and fear
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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