^{translated from the Russian by Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky}

Like a white stone deep in a draw-well lying, 
As hard and clear, a memory lies in me. 
I cannot strive nor have I heart for striving: 
It is such pain and yet such ecstasy.

It seems to me that someone looking closely 
Into my eyes would see it, patent, pale. 
And, seeing, would grow sadder and more thoughtful 
Than one who listens to a bitter tale.

The ancient gods changed men to things, but left them 
A consciousness that smoldered endlessly,
That splendid sorrows might endure forever. 
And you are changed into a memory.

[Как белый камень в глубине колодца,]

Как белый камень в глубине колодца, 
Лежит во мне одно воспоминанье. 
Я не могу и не хочу бороться: 
Оно—веселье и оно—страданье.

Мне кажется, что тот, кто близко взглянет 
В мои глаза, его увидит сразу. 
Печальней и задумчивее станет 
Внимающего скорбному рассказу.

Я ведаю, что боги превращали 
Людей в предметы, не убив сознанья, 
Чтоб вечно жили дивные печали. 
Ты превращён в моё воспоминанье.

The park is filled with night and fog, 
  The veils are drawn about the world, 
The drowsy lights along the paths 
  Are dim and pearled.

Gold and gleaming the empty streets, 
  Gold and gleaming the misty lake, 
The mirrored lights like sunken swords, 
  Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be 
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I 
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. 
Oh, beauty, are you not enough?

Why am I crying after love 
With youth, a singing voice and eyes
To take earth’s wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride, 
Why am I unsatisfied, 
I for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,
I for whom all beauty burns 
Like incense in a million urns? 
Oh, beauty, are you not enough? 
Why am I crying after love?