O lovely demon, half-divine!
Hemlock and hydromel and gall,
Honey and aconite and wine
Mingle to make thatmouth of thine-
Thy mouth I love: but most of all
It is thy tears that I desire-
Thy tears, like fountain-drops that fall
In garden red,Satanical;
Or like the tears of mist and fire,
Wept by the moon, that wizards use
to secret runes when they require
Some silver philtre,sweet and dire.
By Clark Ashton Smith
Whispers, timid breathing,
trills of a nightingale,
the silver and the shiver
of a sleepy rill.
Pale light and nighttime shadows,
shadows without end,
all the magic transformations
of eyes and lips and brows.
In smoky clouds, a rose’s purple,
the shine of amber beads,
and the kisses, and the tears,
and the dawn, the dawn!
by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)
a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)
(1850)
translated by Boris Dralyuk
Not the autumn wind in the forest,
not streams hurtling down to the plains –
what we hear is Frost the Commander,
patrolling his far-flung domains.
Has snow been swept by the blizzards
over every pathway and track?
Is there any bare ground still showing,
any last brown fissure or crack?
Have the oak trees been handsomely dappled,
are the tops of the pines fluffed just right?
Have the ice floes been shackled together
so that every lake is gripped tight?
Frost comes striding over the treetops;
shards of ice crackle under his tread.
Lord Frost moves closer and closer;
beams of sunlight dance in his beard.
What pathway is closed to a wizard?
Ever nearer the widow he draws.
Now Frost is looming above her,
rehearsing his wintry laws.
There he stands in a pine tree,
beating time with his cane,
boasting of his own glory
and repeating his old refrain:
‘No need to be bashful, sweet maiden,
see how fine a Commander I am!
Speak truthfully now: have you ever
glimpsed a more handsome young man?
‘Blizzards, downpours and whirlwinds –
I can quieten them all in a trice;
I can stroll out over the ocean
and build myself chambers of ice.
‘One breath – and the greatest of rivers
lie silenced beneath my yoke,
transformed to the strongest of bridges,
broad roads for the merchant folk.
‘I love dropping down into graves
to scatter diamonds over the dead,
to freeze the blood in their veins
and ice the brains in their heads.
‘I love frightening a lonely robber
riding home with a purse he’s plundered:
in the depth of the forest silence
I make branches resound like thunder.
‘Old women go rushing back home,
their heads full of spirits and devils.
But there’s more pleasure still to be had
with drunkards returning from revels.
‘I don’t need chalk to whiten their faces!
I set their noses ablaze without fire!
I freeze beards to reins in a tangle
not even an axe can sever!
‘I’m rich, there’s no counting my treasure;
my fortune’s as great as the world.
Every day I bejewel my kingdom
anew with silver and pearls.
‘Dear Maiden, I bid you now enter
my empire. Let me make you my queen!
We shall reign in glory all winter,
then let summer slip by in a dream.
‘Come, maiden, and let me warm you
in a palace of pale blue ice!’
So Lord Frost sings out above her
as he swings his sparkling mace.
‘Are you warm enough there, dear maiden?’
he calls from high in the pine.
‘Oh yes,’ the young widow answers –
and icy shivers run down her spine.
Now Frost has dropped down lower,
his mace swinging ever so near,
and he whispers softly and tenderly:
‘Warm enough?’ ‘Oh yes, my dear!’
Warm enough – but what does she feel?
Frost’s breath has already numbed her
and needles of ice from his beard,
though colder and sharper than steel,
are lulling her into slumber.
‘Are you warm enough now?’ Frost whispers,
his arms now encircling her waist –
and she hears not Frost but Proklyusha
and all she sees is long past.
On her lips and her eyes and her shoulders
Darya feels the wizard’s long kisses –
and she sees not Frost but her husband
and she drinks in his honeyed whispers.
He’s talking to her of a wedding,
his words so caressing and sweet
that Darya’s eyes are now closing
and her axe lies still by her feet.
And the arc of a smile now parts
the poor lips of the wretched widow.
White flakes now cover her eyelids
and needles of ice her brow…
A lump of snow falls on Darya
as a squirrel takes a flying leap,
but Darya does not lift a finger;
she’s frozen, enchanted, asleep.
by Николай Алексеевич Некрасов (Nikolay Alexeyevich Nekrasov)
(1864)
translated by Robert Chandler and Boris Dralyuk
A man met Rachel, in a valley. Jacob
Bowed courteously, this wanderer far from home.
Flocks, raising the hot dust, could not slake their
Thirst. The well was blocked with a huge stone.
Jacob wrenched the stone from the well
Of pure water, and the flocks drank their fill.
But the heart in his breast began to grieve,
It ached like an open wound.
He agreed that in Laban’s fields he should serve
Seven years to win the maiden’s hand.
For you, Rachel! Seven years in his eyes
No more than seven dazzling days.
But silver-loving Laban lives
In a web of cunning, and is unknown to grace.
He thinks: every deceit forgives
Itself to the glory of Laban’s house.
And he led Leah firmly to the tent
Where Jacob took her, blind and innocent.
Night drops from on high over the plains,
The cool dews pour,
And the youngest daughter of Laban groans,
Tearing the thick braids of her hair.
She curses her sister and reviles God, and
Begs the Angel of Death to descend.
And Jacob dreams the hour of paradise:
In the valley the clear spring,
The joyful look in Rachel’s eyes,
And her voice like a bird’s song.
Jacob, was it you who kissed me, loved
Me, and called me your black dove?
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1921)
– from Anno Domini MCMXXI translation by D. M. Thomas
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
by Walter de la Mare (1873 – 1956)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 