Afanasy Fet
Flowers

The voice of the herd rises from the fields;
In the bushes the robins sing,
And a sweet aroma flows
From the whitened apple-trees of the garden.

The flowers gaze with tender melancholy,
Innocently pure, like spring,
Shedding fragrant dust,
The seeds of their rosy fruit.

Sister of the flowers, friend of the rose,
Look me in the eye,
Initiate a life-giving reverie,
Inspire my heart with song.

Translated by John Cobley