Leaving the grove sacred homeland
And the house, where muse, cry, pined,
I, quiet, funny, lived
On the lower island, which the, like a raft,
I stopped in the lush delta of the Neva.
ABOUT, mysterious winter days,
And cute work, and easy fatigue,
And the roses in washrooms jug!
Lane was snow and not long.
And against the door to us a wall of the altar
Erected a church of St. Catherine.
How early I came out of the house,
And often untouched snow,
His tracks yesterday vain
on the pale, net veil looking,
And along the river, where the schooner, as a dove,
Together gently, gently pressing,
About gray coast until the spring of yearning,
I came up to the old bridge.
there's room, like a cage,
Under the roof in a dirty, noisy house,
Where is he, as the siskin, svystal before the easel,
And he complained fun, sadly
Oh the joy of not being spoken.
As in the mirror, I looked anxiously
On the gray canvas, and every week
All the more bitter and it was strange similarity
My with my new image.
Now I do not know, where the artist cute,
With that out of the blue I attic
Through the window on the roof left
And the ledge was over the abyss of death,
To see snow, Neva river and clouds, –
but I feel, Muses that our friendly
Carefree and captivating friendship,
the girls, who did not know love.