Fyodor Tyutchev
Look at the coppice!..

Look at the coppice!
Foliage awash in scorching sun,
wafting sweet comfort around me,
from every bough and leaf it runs!

Let's go inside and sit above the roots
of trees fed by that rill,
where trees waft in their thousands
the stream which whispers in the dusky still.

Delirium runs her fingers through the leafy summits
suspended in the midday heat
and every now and then an eagle screeches,
from very far away.

Translated by Frank Jude