«My critic, rosy-gilled, as quick as thought to offer
Our gloomy Muse affront, you plump, pot-bellied scoffer,
Come here, I beg, sit down, and have a little nip;
Together we may get the better of the hyp.
Behold those wretched huts: a view to feast your eyes on,
Black earth beyond, the plain that slopes toward the horizon;
Above the hovels hang low clouds, thick-massed and gray.
But the bright meadows, friend, the dark woods — where are they?
Where the blithe brook? Beside the low fence in the court
Two trees rejoice the eye; they're of a meager sort,
Such pitiable things, the two of them together,
And one is stripped quite bare by autumn's rainy weather,
The other's yellow leaves wait, sopping, to be strewn
On puddles by the wind that will be raging soon.
There's not a living cur. True, here a peasant trudges
Across the empty court, tagged by two kerchiefed drudges.
The coffin of a child beneath his arm, no hat
Upon his head — he calls to the priest's lazy brat
To bid his dad unlock the church — “You've legs to run with!
Be quick!We're late — high time the funeral were done with!”
Why do you frown, my friend?» «You've kept this up too long;
Can't you amuse us with a merry sort of song?»
«Where are you off to now?» «To Moscow, I am setting
Out for the birthday ball.» «But are you quite forgetting
That we are quarantined? There's cholera about.
Come, cool your heels, as in the mountainous redoubt
Your humble servant did there's nothing else to do now.
Well, brother, you don't scoff: so you've got the hyp too now!»
Румяный критик мой, насмешник толстопузый,
Готовый век трунить над нашей томной музой,
Поди-ка ты сюда, присядь-ка ты со мной,
Попробуй, сладим ли с проклятою хандрой.
Смотри, какой здесь вид: избушек ряд убогий,
За ними чернозём, равнины скат отлогий,
Над ними серых туч густая полоса.
Где нивы светлые? где тёмные леса?
Где речка? На дворе у низкого забора
Два бедных деревца стоят в отраду взора,
Два только деревца. И то из них одно
Дождливой осенью совсем обнажено,
И листья на другом, размокнув и желтея,
Чтоб лужу засорить, лишь только ждут Борея.
И только. На дворе живой собаки нет.
Вот, правда, мужичок, за ним две бабы вслед.
Без шапки он; несет подмышкой гроб ребёнка
И кличет издали ленивого попёнка,
Чтоб тот отца позвал да церковь отворил.
Скорей! ждать некогда! давно бы схоронил.
Что ж ты нахмурился? — Нельзя ли блажь оставить!
И песенкою нас весёлой позабавить? —
Куда же ты? — В Москву, чтоб графских именин
Мне здесь не прогулять.
— Постой, а карантин!
Ведь в нашей стороне индейская зараза.
Сиди, как у ворот угрюмого Кавказа,
Бывало, сиживал покорный твой слуга;
Что, брат? уж не трунишь, тоска берёт — ага!
«Lips which greet me with a smile, / a young girl’s rosy complexion, / your gaze which is bright and which sparkles.... / it all entices me to pleasure. Ah, this gaze in passion’s fire / on gossamer wings sends out desire, / and with some magical power / locks hearts in its fabulous ...»
«I taught myself to live simply and wisely, / to look at the sky and pray to God, / and to wander long before evening / to tire my superfluous worries. When the burdocks rustle in the ravine / and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops / I compose happy verses / about life's decay, dec...»
«Like a white stone in a deep well / one memory lies inside me. / I cannot and will not fight against it: / it is joy and it is pain. It seems to me that anyone who looks / into my eyes will notice it immediately, / becoming sadder and more pensive / than someone listening to a melanchol...»
«The great man stared through the window / but her entire world ended with the border / of his broad Greek tunic, whose abundant folds / resembled the sea on hold. / And he still stared out through the window, and his gaze / was so far away from here, that his lips were immobile / like a ...»