M.Lermontov, Demon, Chapter 1, Xv - Xvi - Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

XV (continued)

In the ocean of air,
Without helm or any sail,
So quietly are floating
Planets - a choir celestial.
There amidst the vast fields rambling,
In the skies without trace,
Fibrous flocks of clouds gentle,
Imperceptible in race.
And the hour of meeting,
As well as the parting one,
Does not give them joy or pity,
Cold to future or to past.
In the day of mortal anguish
You should recollect their fly,
Being as they are - impassive,
And light-hearted - as they are.

When night spreads over its cover
The mountains Caucasian,
As soon as world, caught by the charming
Of mystic word, in silence sleeps;
As soon as wind above the mountains
Stirs faded grass, scaring a bird,
Which rises up, breaking the darkness
With throbbing wings, and brings a joy;
And under vine, with thirst, is gulping
The dew of heavens in the night
The flower, in blossom wondeful;
As soon as from behind the mountain
The golden moon appears silent
And stealthily looks at you, lovely, -
Then I will fly to to you, my dear,
And stay till dawn, and call up dreams
On your eyelashes, soft and silky,
I'll be with you all time, for real.


XVI

The words stopped sounding in distance,
One after one they disappeared.
She jumped up, looking round, near...
She felt the inexpressive fear,
The perturbation in her breast.
The heat of ectasy - was nothing,
Compared with the feeling crest;
The soul was rending its strict bondage,
And fire raced through net of veins,
And that voice mystic seemed to be heard
Anew in silence and again...
Before the dawn the dream's oncoming
Calmed down tired eyes and strain;
But he disturbed her with the thought
Of the prophetic dream, though strange,
The alien, who'd come to her,
So unearthly beautiful in haze,
And mute, were bending over head,
And looked at her with love sencere,
He looked at her, but so sad,
As feeling thus the inner pity.
That wasn't an angel from the sky,
The angel-keeper of divinity,
The crown of shining rays wasn't up
On hair curls, as common image.
That was not spirit of the hell,
So vicious, terrible - oh, no!
He was like evening clear, yet,
Not day, not night - nor dark, nor glow!