To sit a while and meditate alone,
Pondering my fate upon this stone.
He’ll say: “Wherefore he failed to see
The light, and how he did not find
His friends, and why love’s fancy
Did not ease his troubled mind.
Wasn’t he deserving?” And he’ll ponder
As a shadow looms, and gazing yonder,
See grey clouds gliding over waves of blue,
A white sail, a fast-running canoe
And my memorial! – My cherished dreams
Are all like this. The sweetness
Is in everything not yet fulfilled, it seems
In just such pictures there’s completeness.
Though hard to put on paper, thought is strong,
When not constrained by logic, only song —
When running free, like in a children’s game,
Or when a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame!
English translation of 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ by M.Y. Lermontov © Thomas Beavitt August 2018
По заказу Максима Привезенцева.
Обложка.
Для подготовки обложки издания использована художественная работа автора.
Художник Евгения Бубер.
Фотография автора книги Максима Привезенцева из материалов экспедиции в Шотландию. www.maximprivezentsev.com