Сон - Dream, пер. Б. Пастернака

I dreamt about autumn in half-lights
Of glasses, crowd of lool-friends,
And, as a falcon, taken blood from high skies,
The heart was slowly descending in your hand.

But time was passing by, turned old,
Doomed down, silvering the frames of mirrors,
The dawn from garden rigidly was pouring
Tears of September, the bloody gears.

But time was passing by, turned old.
And friable,as ice,the silk of arm-chairs melted.
You, loud, stammered suddenly, calmed down,
And my dream, as the bell's toll, ended.

I woke up. The dawn was dark as autumn,
Wind there carried, hastily retreating,
As rain carries the water thin straws
After a cart, the birch's flying ridges.

1913, 1928