A landowner, some years ago,
Went driving through his woods, which made a splendid show.
His coachman, Filka, on his perch
Looked strong of sinew and of bone.
The landowner admired the woods he called his own.
«Just see my saplings, Filka: pine and birch!
My boy, this is a forest, eh? Look round a bit:
This used to be a waste, but now just look at it!
That's where good switches grow — hop down and fetch a few;
The peasants need their drubbings — rods will come in pat.»
«Mm, yes," drawled Filka, "yes... the very thing for that...
Just let them grow... they'll make stout clubs, I promise you.»
The moral of this tale is clear to any cub:
Years passed, and every switch became a club.
Годков тому примерно пять
Помещик некий в лес заехал погулять.
На козлах Филька красовался,
Такой–то парень — богатырь!
«Вишь, как тут заросло, а был совсем пустырь.
Молодняком помещик любовался. —
Как, Филька, думаешь? Хорош молоднячок?
Вот розги где растут. Не взять ли нам пучок?
В острастку мужикам... на случай своеволья!» —
«М–да! — Филька промычал, скосивши вбок глаза. —
М–да... розги — первый сорт...
Молоднячок... Лоза...
Как в рост пойдут, ведь вот получатся дреколья!»
Какой же в басенке урок? Смешной вопрос.
Года всё шли да шли — и молодняк подрос.
«I will never forget it (did it happen-who cares?) / Burnt and split by the sunset blaze / Was the pallid celestial vast, and some flares / Came to light in the yellow space. / / There I sat by the window, in a crowded chamber. / Fiddlesticks were singing again. / And I sent you a f...»
«There is impulsive youth again, / With bursts of vigour, views far-out... / But happy moments never came. / At least this doesn"t raise a doubt! / / You have to be on the alert / For threat awaits you here and yonder. / And should you get away unhurt, / You will, at last, believe i...»
«I would forget about courage, winning, / About glory in the grievous land / When I looked up to see your portrait beaming / In an uncomely frame I had at hand. / / The time had come and you left home for ever. / I threw the cherished ring into the night. / You gave your destiny...»
«At night when troubles settle down / And darkness hides the streets and lanes — / There"s so much music all around, / God sends us such amazing strains! / / What is the tempest, if your flowers, / Adorn the blooming garden-bed! / What are the bitter tears of ours, / If sunse...»