Ivan Bunin

The rain and the wind and the murk
Reign over cold desert of fall,
Here, life's interrupted till spring;
Till the spring, gardens barren and tall.
...

November. Midnight damp. Chalk-white beneath
The moon the village lies, by the oppressive
Hush overcome. The tide sweeps in, impassive,
Its voice all deep solemnity and breadth.
...

A crackling fire. Light, heat in the felucca.
Pikes in the water. Pearl-white sand below.
The trident now! You'll get one if you're lucky.
Go slow, don't rush. A blow! Another blow!
...

Blasting the malachites beneath the rudder,
The seething sea spews pearly blobs of foam.
The shore sails nearer as we move from under
The ship's smooth, towering shape and make for home.
...

'Who knocks? I won't get up. I will not open
The spray-soaked door of this old hut. How chill
And how uneasy are the nights of autumn!
And yet its dawns are more uneasy still.'
...

A whip cracks in the wood, and cattle low
And through the underbrush are heard to
Crash heavily. Leaves rustle. Snowdrops show
Their blue heads here and there. A sudden, furtive
...

It's dark. Not caring where I go, which path I follow,
Past sleepy ponds I stroll.
Of autumn freshness, leaves and fruit the fragrance mellow
Drifts over all.
...

Dead grasses parched by heat. The steppeland, seared,
Runs on and merges with the sky's pale reaches.
Here is a horse's sun-bleached skull, and here
An idol with its flat, stone features.
...

Starved, mangy dogs with mournful, pleading eyes,
Descendants of the ones that in a bygone
Age from the steppeland came, and, stung by flies,
Dragged in the wake of dusty, creaking wagons.
...

Dream on! Your golden eyes turn narrower
And duller as you watch the snowflakes clinging
To window frames, and hear the blizzard singing
Out in the yard where poplars groan, astir.
...

As in a boundless sea in darkening fields and meadows
The sunset's tristful rays fade and then sink from sight,
And in mute twilights wake, over the steppe the shadows
Creep swiftly, bringing night.
...

No birds in sight. The forest withers slowly,
Resigned to utter emptiness and chill.
No mushrooms, but there comes from out a gully
Of mushroom damp the strong and tangy smell.
...

The Dead Sea, and, beyond, the greyish, broken
Line of the hills. Noon. Mealtime. Deft of hand,
He bathes his mare, then sits a hookah smoking
On Jordan's shore. Like molten bronze the sand
...

Like copper shone the autumn day. Poseidon
And Aeolus moaned softly, mournfully.
Huge, surging, lilac waves rose on the sea.
Our ship dove fish-like in and out among them.
...

Sewn with gold is your sable-black jerkin of velvet,
Loud your hum as you boldly fly into my room.
Why, O bumblebee, drone you so mournfully, tell me?
Would you share my dejection and gloom?
...

Warmth and light, buzzing bumblebees, wheat ears and grasses,
Azure skies - of high summer the birth…
To his prodigal son will the Lord say: 'Confess, pray -
Have you known true contentment on earth?'
...

"She passed away, and was interred by Jacob
Beside the road…" And on the tomb, no sight
Of any name, inscription and no mark up.
...

The camel snorts. He won't get up. .
His grumbling flanks are heaving. Give him
A kick?.. The criers' calls atop
The mosques dawn's sleepy streets enliven.
...

On a tripod the goddess sits, gazing
At herself in a mirror propped close:
Red-gold tresses, a perfect Greek nose,
Sea-green eyes like twin emeralds blazing.
...