Я зимним вечером бродил,
Никто со мной не говорил,
И город, шумный, как ковчег,
До желтых глаз был спрятан в снег.
Мне чудилось - там шумный бал,
Я звуки скрипки услыхал,
И видел отблеск в складках штор
От юных лиц и юных форм.
Покинув улицу,я брел,
Пока домов уж не нашел.
Вернувшись, я увидел в горе
погасших глаз пустое море.
Звучал мой шаг, как скрип чужой,
По сонной улице ночной.
И этим, как недобрый глаз,
Я осквернил десятый час
GOOD HOURS
by Robert Frost
I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.