Afanasy Fet
The steppe at evening

The roiling clouds were thrilling in the scarlet luster,
The evening fields were luxuriant and moist,
And for the last time, at the third pass the driver
Disappeared, the team raising no dust.

No habitations were seen in the broad view.
Hearth and song far off — no surprise!
All was steppe. More steppe. Boundless as the sea
With rolling waves of ripening rye.

Half of it hidden behind a lowering cloud
The moon did not show itself by day.
A bug took flight and angrily buzzed,
A harrier hawk floated motionless in the sky.

The fields were covered in nets of glinting gold,
Somewhere in the distance a quail called,
And from the dewy underbrush I heard
The hushed krik-krik of a corn crake sound.

At twilight tricks are played on the curious eye.
Coolness drifts through the warm evening air.
The moon is chaste. And the luster of stars in the sky
In the light of the Milky Way is like a river.

Translated by Don Mager