Wake her not out of sleep at the dawn,
At the dawn she is sleeping too sweet.
On her breast there is breath of the morn,
On the cheeks dimples are blooming with it.
Hot is this sound sleep of the maid’s
Yet she now is foreign to trouble;
By the shoulders are running her braids
Like dark ribbons on snow-white marble.
Very long at the window last eve
Quite alone she was watching the moon
That was playing with clouds as if
Wished to tease them while lovesome and boon.
And the more tender night got opaque,
And the louder sang a nightingale,
More and more she was feeling sweet ache,
From excitement she was turning pale.
That is why are caressed by the morn
Her young breasts and the dimples, indeed.
Wake her not out of sleep at the dawn...
At the dawn she is sleeping too sweet.
На заре ты её не буди,
На заре она сладко так спит;
Утро дышит у ней на груди,
Ярко пышет на ямках ланит.
И подушка её горяча,
И горяч утомительный сон,
И, чернеясь, бегут на плеча
Косы лентой с обеих сторон.
А вчера у окна ввечеру
Долго-долго сидела она
И следила по тучам игру,
Что, скользя, затевала луна.
И чем ярче играла луна,
И чем громче свистал соловей,
Всё бледней становилась она,
Сердце билось больней и больней.
Оттого-то на юной груди,
На ланитах так утро горит.
Не буди ж ты её, не буди...
На заре она сладко так спит!