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.
«There is this hard, / This shameful. / Almost impossible — / Hard: It is to lift the eyelashes / And look into the face of a mother, / Whose son was killed. / But one shouldn’t talk about that.»
«Smiling nervously but brightly, / conscious of her youth and fame, / she set the way that she was asked to / indifferently — or playing games. Under heaven's dome's eternal childhood / April nineteen hundred twelve / has promised her in Ospedaletti / only prosperity and s...»
«Marina, how I love to know that / like everyone else, like me – / who cannot speak now through my frozen throat / because to speak of it is like swallowing ice – / to know that you, a creature of light! of snow! / were like the rest of us, given lessons in music. / And there was a wa...»
«Now on three sides the darkness grows deeper / with the coming of dawn, and still my / hand has no courage to reach through the solid / air to the white paper on the table. For reason can not honestly resist my / sense of limitation! Now I cannot / let my hand wrote any of those careless ...»