Fet, "Я тебе ничего не скажу"

A work ("To you I will say nothing at all") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

To you I will say nothing at all,
And you I will in no way unease;
At what I so in silence do fall,
Never then will I so much as hint.

All day sleep evening flowers in bliss
Past the grove but the sun will ascend;
All the leaves with such quiet dehisce,
And I hear how my heart's joy extends.

In my breast both so sickly and bent
Humid night rages and blows ... yet I stall.
But you I will in no way unease,
To you I will say nothing at all.

Blok, "Тебе, Тебе, с иного света"

To Alexandra on her birthday a work ("O You, You of another world) by the greatest Russian poet of the twentieth century.  You can read the original here.                                   

O You, You of another world, 
My Friend, my Angel, and my Law!
Forgive this poet, mad, absurd,
To you again he will not crawl.

Insane and sad was I, it seems,     
Hard fate I sought if but to urge;
Yet I, hurt by some golden dreams,
Will in my grave with secrets merge.

From night you shined on through to me,
From penury you led me forth;
Into the dale your eyes did flee, 
And took my Muse as destined course.

And in my grave, it's birds I hear:
The spring awaits; the earth is wet.
That girlish golden tress so near 
Reminds me of my languid bet.

Tiutchev, "Бессонница"

A work ("Insomnia") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

The hours war in lockstep pace,
The burdened news of night’s misdeeds!
A tongue unknown to every race
And, clear as conscience, our fear feeds!

Who from us with no yearning heard,
Amid the global silence still,
The quiet years of moaning’s chill
And prescient voice, the final word?

We dream and see an orphaned realm,
Where fate’s hard force cannot be turned;
And we in war, at nature’s helm,
Are left to bear from what we’ve learned.

Before us then our life awaits,
A specter perched on green earth’s end;
And our mad years and those years’ mates
With us grow pale in twilight’s bend...

New generations rise up hence,
Against the sun they bloom in fire;
And we, dear friends, and our years sense
Oblivion’s long unbroke spire!

But rarely do sad rites convene
At midnight hour to sing our wake;
The funeral dirge of metal’s sheen
Shall mourn our time and mortal make!

Tsvetaeva, "Маме"

A work ("To Mom") by this Russian poet. You can read the original here.

So much is lost to endless dark,
Extracts from heart’s immortal strands!
Sad lips, your lips, have left their mark,
Luxuriant locks fall on our hands.

Breath slowed upon a notebook space,
Bright rubies’ gleam unites our stare;
And our soft bed reflects your face,
Your smile, your love, is always there.

As wounded birds remind us still
Of youthful woe, your unsaid pleas;
So teardrops wash our lashes’ frill,
As silence shut the piano keys.

Fet, "Фонтан"

A work ("Fountain") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

 

Night and I, we breathe as two,
Drunken air of lime-like hue,
Wordless then we hear a sound:
Lapping songs our ears surround,
Fountain streams are swaying through.

Blood and thought and body, we
Wait as docile slaves to see:
All shall rise in boldness high
To the limits we espy,
Under fate’s hard-won alee.

Thought is borne and my heart beats,
Squints dispel no darkened sheets,
Once again my heart finds blood,
Reservoirs with my beams flood,
And sweet dawn the night defeats.