The crimson summer now grows pale;
Clear, bright days now soar away;
Hazy mist spreads through the vale,
As the sleeping night turns gray;
The barren cornfields lose their gold;
The lively stream has now turned cold;
The curly woods are gray and stark,
And the heavens have grown dark.
Where are you, my light, Natasha?
No one's seen you, — I lament.
Don't you want to share the passion
Of this moment with a friend?
You have not yet met with me
By the pond, or by our tree,
Though the season has turned late,
We have not yet had a date.
Winter’s cold will soon arrive
Fields will freeze with frost, so bitter.
In the smoky shack, a light,
Soon enough, will shine and glitter.
I won't see my love, — I'll rage
Like a finch, inside a cage,
And at home, depressed and dazed,
I’ll recall Natasha's grace.
Вянет, вянет лето красно;
Улетают ясны дни;
Стелется туман ненастный
Ночи в дремлющей тени;
Опустели злачны нивы,
Хладен ручеек игривый;
Лес кудрявый поседел;
Свод небесный побледнел.
Свет-Наташа! где ты ныне?
Что никто тебя не зрит?
Иль не хочешь час единый
С другом сердца разделить?
Ни над озером волнистым,
Ни под кровом лип душистым
Ранней — позднею порой
Не встречаюсь я с тобой.
Скоро, скоро холод зимный
Рощу, поле посетит;
Огонек в лачужке дымной
Скоро ярко заблестит;
Не увижу я прелестной
И, как чижик в клетке тесной,
Дома буду горевать
И Наташу вспоминать.
«Time's long and ever-flowing river / To all men's works a finis brings, / And in the great gulf of oblivion / Drowns realms and peoples and their kings. / And if the voice of lyre and trumpet / Hold aught awhile above the spate, / That too eternity will swallow, / That too endure the c...»
«How many dear companions who enlivened for us / The world's rough road are gone, each fellow traveler / Much missed; yet say not sadly: they have left us! / But rather say, with gratitude: they were.»
«1 I don’t believe in omens or fear / Forebodings. I flee from neither slander / Nor from poison. Death does not exist. / Everyone’s immortal. Everything is too. / No point in fearing death at seventeen, / Or seventy. There’s only here and now, and light; / Neither death, nor darkn...»
«He was sitting by the river, among reeds / that peasants had been scything for their thatch. / And it was quiet there, and in his soul / it was quieter and stiller still. / He kicked off his boots and put / his feet into the water, and the water / began talking to him, not knowing / he...»