Blok, "Как мимолетна тень осенних ранних дней"

To Alexandra on her birthday, a work ("Like momentary shade of fall days past") by this poet.  You can read the original here.

Like momentary shade of fall days past,  
I wish to keep the germ of their ill ease,
This yellow leaf against the roadside leas,
This purest day, with shade its main repast;  

Because these shades compose burst beauty's seam,  
Because these days hold peaceful agitation,
They bear, they lend to final inspiration, 
The remnants of a dissipating dream.

Like the momentary shade of fall days past,

How one wishes to retain their early alarm,

And this yellow leaf fallen on the road,

And this clear day, so filled with shadows.

Because the shades of day are beauty’s surfeit,

Because these days are of a peaceful anxiousness,

They bear, they lend to final inspirations,

The surfeit of a dissipating dream.

Hölderlin, "Tränen"

A work ("Tears") by this German poet.  You can read the original here.

O tender love so heavenly!
If I your fateful eyes forgot,
Of ashes fiery – and if not,  
Forlorn, untamed, would you still be –

Those islands dear, that wondrous hub!  
For you alone do me address, 
Your shore, where the idolatrous 
Atone, if heavenly, their love.  

There saints in endless gratitude, 
And wrathful heroes served, in days  
Of beauty; there trees will have swayed,
And cities stood in patent view,  

Much like a thoughtful man; anon
Are heroes dead, love's islands seem  
Well-nigh deformed. So must love's dream  
Outwit all silly fools, bar none.  

Your softest tears do not my sight 
Occlude in full; let memory –
Deceptive, thieving – outlive me: 
Leave this so I may nobly die. 

Verlaine, "Allégorie"

A work ("Allegory") by this French poet.  You can read the original here.

Despotic, heavy Summer's heat,          
A lazy king hears pleas for grace;  
Complicit white skies burn his face,
Which yawns near shirking men asleep.

With sloth to thank, the morning lark  
Sang not: no cloud, no breath, no crease 
Of softest ripples on blue leas,
Where silence falls in stillness dark. 

Cicadas come in torpor tart,   
And on their bed of unmatched stones
The streams half-dry no longer splash,

And endless spins of moiré art
More luminous than tidal moans,
As wasps fly by in gold and black.

Goethe, "Der Erlkönig"

One of the most famous of all German poems ("The Erlking"), based on Scandinavian legend, and the work of this polymath.  You can read the original here.

Who rides so late through wind and night?
The father with his child held tight.
Embracing boy and steed as one,
His courage burned like warmest sun.

"My Son, what fear makes scarce your face?"
"O Father, 'tis the Erlking's trace!
His crown and robe cascade and teem-"
"My Son, 'tis but a mist-spun dream!"

"My dearest, come along with me!
What games we'll play!  What sights we'll see!
As roses bright adorn the shore,
So mother walks in gold decor."

"O Father, Father, hear you soft
What Erlking whispers from his toft?" –
"Be still, my child, be still and hear
The rustling wind in dry leaves near."

"To you, fine lad, should you come now,
My daughters will in duty bow.
In nightly dance they will you lead,
And rock and sing until you sleep."

"O Father, Father, see you not
The Erlking's coven in dark spot?" –
"My Son, my Son, I see it sure:
Yon willow trees in grey demure."

"Your shape does but my love provoke;
Resistance will brute force uncloak." –
"O Father, Father, wait no more!
The Erlking's come and made me sore!"

The father's twitch slows not his pace
As groaning child still hides his face.
With pain and fear he gains the stead,
But in his arms the child was dead.

Bunin, "Одиночество"

A poem ("Solitude") by one of Russia's greatest poets. It can be read here in its original.

And wind, and rain, and gloom conform
Above the cold, deserted pool;
‘Tis here that spring restores the norm;
‘Tis then that groves will bloom anew.
In villa’s dark alone I wane
By easel’s shade and fogged pane.

And yesterday you were with me,
But I could only make you sad.
As evening came to stormy lea,
No longer was our union glad.
So then, farewell! Until the spring
Bereft of wife, alone, I sing.

Today clouds race in endless scorch,
Bank after bank they scull the skies.
Your trace upon my rain-swept porch
Is water wrought from your sad eyes.
And I alone can hardly bear
The twilight gloom in greyest flare.

To you I wish my heart might cast:
“Come back, our love shall never die!”
But women feel there is no past:
She loves me not, no kin am I.
Well then, perhaps a hound might do,
A fireside warm, a drink or two.