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.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 12, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

 

I used to watch the sunrise glow
That set aflame the eastern skies,
My lips in songs did freely flow
As thoughts went fleeting with my sighs.

I’ve lived through storms and smiles and tears,
And seen familiar faces die,
Ah, these, my weary youthful years
Are fraught with shades of dreams gone by.

And yet when once again I see
The glory of the purpling hills,
My dying heart revives to be
A spring of loves and lover’s thrills.

My mind in youth did ever roam
Across the mountains and the dales,
And now my heart has found a home
Among the eastern hills and vales.

From Manila: A Collection of Verse (Imp. Paredes, Inc., 1926) by Luis Dato. This poem is in the public domain.

There are more songs in the far corners
           of my soul
Than I shall ever be able to sing.
I shall go away long before they are
           all expressed
And they will wait for another life, for
           more suffering,
To give them birth; another life and many
           more tears
And love, to make them open their eyes to
           the light.
It will take many lives to express all
           the songs
I hear singing to themselves day and night.

From On a Grey Thread (Will Ransom, 1923) by Elsa Gidlow. This poem is in the public domain.