Russian nature harbours a weary hope,
A silent pain of sad ruminations,
An impasse of woe, a shoreless still scope,
A cold sublime, and far destinations.
At dawn, when you’re where a hillock declines
Beside a steaming and shivery flow
Amidst a black mass of inanimate pines, —
Your heart will be pained, your heart will be low.
At rest are the rushes. The sedge does not sway.
A resonant hush. A quiescent repose.
The grasslands are going far, far away.
A deaf and mute languish in everything shows.
At dusk, should you enter a country park’s shade
As though it were a freshening flow,
Beside the trees — oddly silent, greyed, —
Your heart will be saddened, your heart will be low.
It’s such that your soul has longed for its chosen,
But they’ve unfairly caused it much pain.
Your heart has forgiven, and yet it’s been frozen,
But weeping, and weeping, and weeping again.
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«Безглагольность», из цикла «Безрадостность», сб. «Только любовь», 1903. К. Д. Бальмонт. Полное собрание стихов. Том четвёртый. Издание третье — М.: Скорпион, 1913.