Aleksey Koltsov
Song

Sing not, nightingale,
Under my window;
Fly away to the woods
Of my own country!
Learn to love the window
Of my soul’s maiden!
Sing to her tenderly
Of my agony;
Sing of me without her,
Waning, withering.
As the grass on the steppe.
Autumn facing it.
Without her, at night.
The moon’s overcast;
At midday, without flame
The sun goes its way.
Without her, who will now
Give me kind greeting?
And on whose breast shall I
Lay my head in repose?
Without her, whose word shall
Win a smile from me?
Whose song, whose welcoming
Shall now touch my heart?
Why sing, nightingale,
Under my window?
Fly away, fly away,
To my soul’s maiden!

Translated by Cecil Maurice Bowra