Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev Poems

How tranquil is this little mountain lake
It’s filled with water like a cup
Bamboo looks just like little houses
...

I know her, her bitter silence,
Her tiredness of her words and cries,
Lives in the secret changing brightness
Of widened pupils of her eyes.
...

I’m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
I’m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood.
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I heard from the garden a woman singing,
But I … I gazed at the moon.

My thoughts never wondered about that woman -
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Dear girl, your cheeks are soft and tender,
And your breasts, like little hills, are slender,
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Like undistinguishable horses,
Gleam by my ever-painful days,
As if fade all the living roses,
And die all living nightingales.
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Only serpents let their skin be fallen
And a soul - all grown up and old.
We, alas, change an eternal soul,
Leaving body in eternal hold.
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Birth of the word is by agony molded,
Through earthly life it is quietly going,
It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden
Pitcher the drops of the savages’ mourning.
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By the hut, left by people and heaven,
Where the fence’s black remnants are steeping,
The ragged beggar and black old raven,
Were discussing the dreams of the sleeping.
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Oh, how silent is the nature,
It only looks and only hears,
The people's spirit in a rapture
Clings to a freedom - fast and fierce.
...