Annensky, "Сентябрь"

A marvelous composition ("September") from one of Russia's most abstract poets.  You can read the original here.

In golden gardens wilt deceitful gates
Of purple’s glory and consumption slow,
By sun’s late dust in shortest arcs they flow
To perfumed fruit on which no master waits.  

The yellow silk of rugs leaves proof impure,
Assented lies of our last words and gaze,
The endless ponds of black lend parks their maze
And passion ripe their ready, yearned cure.

Yet only loss brings beauty to our hearts,
Enchanted force alone inspires love’s haste. 
To those already with sweet lotus’s taste
The fawning autumn scent but fear imparts.

Blok, "Незнакомка"

One of the greatest poems ("The Stranger") of the twentieth century, as composed by Aleksandr Blok.   You can read the original here.

Above the bistros and the day,
A warmer air, both wild and dumb,
Holds shouts and cries of drunken sway,  
The noxious breath of springtime come.

Afar, above the crossroad dust,
Above the languor of dachas plain,
Street pretzel stands sell golden crust,
And children’s cries ring out in vain.

And every eve beyond barred ways,
Fine bowler hats are cocked on tip,
Near ditches ladies stroll and gaze,
As raconteurs their barriers strip.

Above the lake are oarlocks moored,
A female shriek finds no remorse,
And in the sky, to all inured,
A senseless disc repeats its course.

And every eve a single friend,
Reflected in my sordid glass,
As tart and secret potions blend,  
Shares all my stunned and quiet past.

Beside the tables of our confreres,
The servers sleepy tasks amass,
And dizzy drunks with eyes of hares
Exclaim: "In vino veritas."

And every eve, in time prevailed
(Or am I foolishly asleep?),
A girlish shape, in silks regaled,
Moves by the foggy window’s deep.

Between the drunks, still gliding slow,
E’er unaccompanied, alone,
Perfumes and fogs she has to show,
And by the sill she makes her home.

Beliefs of ancients coat the winds:
Elastic silks reform unplanned,
Funereal feathers of past sins,
And rings upon a narrow hand.

In strange closeness so ensnared, I
Escape beyond the darkened veil:
A shore enchanted I espy,
Set softly by enchanted dale.

Unspoken secrets find their tomb,
Between my hands a sun falls grey,
And all wine’s dregs have spun their loom,
My soul’s red thread has gone astray.

And ostrich plumes bent in restraint
Relieve my mind of its dark lore;
And endless eyes of bluish taint
Refract and bloom on distant shore.

And in my soul a secret hides,
Its key is only known as mine!
O, drunken beast whom man derides,
There is indeed much truth in wine.

Briusov, "К Армении"

A lovely work ("To Armenia") by one of Russia's foremost symbolists.  You can read the original here.

And in that year of cruel rule,
When all our burden was one hand,
The twilight cover I sought out,
From day's bright face I stayed without,
And ran to graves' unpassioned cool.

This way I thought I might elude
The wrath divine in holy knoll,
Antiquity's gray eased my pain,
And melodies, millennial fame,
Relieved the ailments of my soul.

A world alive and whole I made
There where I once had sought sad tombs.
At break of day the reeds sang out,
Long crumbled ash, the flutes would shout,
The lea of death would never fade.

With lively greeting of my love,
Old tales came forth in no dead voice;
Nearby the vales would shudder, shake,
The ancient world as one would quake,
And clap like thunder: "Live!  Rejoice!"

As year and year divide the plains,
So now I hear the centuries' chant;
In mellow nature's glorious lair,
Of love, cognition, freedom's blare,
Of songs, of slaves, of breaking chains.

Armenia!  Your ancient voice,
Fresh wind amidst the summer's heat!
How cheerfully our locks are raised,
Engulfed by rain, I stand like maize.
Below the storm, above defeat.

Bely, "Ночь"

A poem ("Night") from one of Russia's greatest prose writers, most famous for this unparalleled novel. You can read the original here.

As spring’s warmth passed, so too the wicked heat;
In vain I sought plain peace, elusive still.
And in a roaring wave the house went shrill
To Hayden’s heights flew forth one elite.

And arrogant he went, in hidden shame.
Contemned by fate, he blew above the dim
And wilted grass, his sighs now long and grim,
And wind beat pale the shacks through darkened panes.

What silence! What simplicity reigns whole!
What miserly and fireless sunrises bend!
So too will you pass on, o friend, poor friend,
Why then should seas of storms still flog our soul?

Pour down, o rain, in mutiny severe!
So sweet cascade the sighs of sumptuous trees.
And night’s effacing look talks in the breeze,
With suffering unheard and wind unnear.

Blok, "Разгадал я, какие цветы"

A work ("I have guessed which flowers you keep") by this Russian poet. You can read the original here.

Up above on that window most white
I have guessed which flowers you keep.
You’re afraid, I suppose, that you might
Catch me wandering through sweetest sleep.

Now I walk amidst flowers most white
And behold the bright flashes of day,
May it be one of joy or of plight,
All the same will your kisses come play.

No sun’s love will you gain from afar,
For you fear to approach it and cheat.
That all-burning, all-wandering star
Cannot love you like my passion’s heat.

And this morn I came forth and I sang,
Pretend not you were deaf to your knight.
A voice lonely, replying, then rang,
And, aquiver, your flowers turned white.