English translations of 4 Стихотворения (4 Stikhotvorenija) = Vier Gedichte von J. Polonsky, opus 32

In warmth, the evil grief is blossoming, turning green,
as if it were warmed by the vernal sun.
The tears have thawed out and are streaming forth like a creek.
Over there, over the sepulchral, loose mound,
A birch tree is standing and growing numb in the snow.

There will be a time, when the cold will seep down into the soul,
the cold will seep down into the soul, and grief will freeze,
as if it were standing still.
And there, over the little grave,
Spring will be in the air, the birch tree will wake up, and in fresh leaves
Will be dressed the long meshes of branches,
And children will run down with lilac flowers.
And silently will gather the sepulchral shadows,
to listen to the voices of carefree children.

I loved the quiet light of the golden lamp,
the reverential silence around it...
Full of a secret waiting,
How often would I, having pulled aside the bed drapes, stay awake,
Leaning my hand on the soft down,
and think, think: would my guardian angel this night
come to talk with me in the quiet?
And I dreamed: on the bed, near me
in the unsteady glow of the lamp fire,
He sat dressed in a silver-pale garment.
And whisperingly, quietly I shared with him,
thoughts, comprehensible to the child’s mind,
and desires, comprehensible to the child’s heart.
The tranquility in his rays was sweet to me,
I was fully permeated by his divine force.
With a smile on his burning lips,
he, the light-winged, thoughtfully listened to me.
But his meek eyes were looking into the distance,
they were reading the future in my soul,
and some sadness was reflected in them,
and the angel spoke:
O Child, child, I feel sorry for you!
Child, child, will you understand the words of my sadness?
I did not understand them with my childish soul,
But seized and kissed the fringes of his garment,
with tears of joy glittering in my eyes.

My mind was oppressed by anguish,
My eyes burned without tears,
Pine trees intertwined over the lake,
The reeds were black, -- slits could be discerned
From darkness to light over water.

And many, many stars were glimmering,
And into my heart the night’s haze,
In a cold shiver, was seeping in.
I could see so few, so few,
Beams of love over the abyss of evil.

The cold night is staring blearily,
Under the mats of my carriage,
Under the runners, the field is squeaking,
Under the shaft bow, a little bell is pealing,
And the coachman is hurrying on the horses.

Beyond the mountains, woods, in the smoky clouds,
The dull specter of the Moon is shining;
The howling of hungry wolves
Resounds in the fog of dark woods...
I see strange dreams.

I dream: there is a bench,
On the bench there is an old woman,
She’s spinning yarn until midnight,
Telling me my favorite fairy tales,
Singing lullabies,

And I see in the dream how I’m riding on the back of a wolf,
Along a path in the woods,
To war with a sorcerer king,
Into a land where a princess is locked up,
Languishing behind a sturdy wall.

There, a glass palace is surrounded by gardens,
There, firebirds are singing at night,
And pecking at golden fruit,
There, there is a spring of life-water and death-water,
You both can and cannot believe your own eyes.

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