From the Russian of Vladimir Vladislavlef
From my poor rhymes you turn your face,
From my allurements flee;
So shuns the vane the wind’s embrace,
And scorns his minstrelsy.
From Lermontof
The Angel
Thro’ the midnight heavens an angel flew,
And a soft low song sang he,
And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds
Heard that holy melody.
He sang of the bliss of sinless souls
’Neath the tents of Eden-bowers;
Of God—the Great One—he sang; and unfeigned
Was his praise of the Godhead’s powers.
A little babe in his arms he bore,
For this world of woe and tears,
And the sound of his song in the soul of the child
Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.
And long languished she on this earth below,
With a wondrous longing filled,
But the world’s harsh songs could not change for her
The notes which that angel trilled.