Fyodor Tyutchev
Lord, send your comfort...

Lord, send your comfort
to him who, during summerТs scorching heat,
like some poor beggar past a garden,
along a hot road drags his weary feet,

who gazes in passing across a fence
at the shades of trees, at valleysТ golden grain
and at the inaccessible coolness
of softly bright, luxuriant plains.

Not for him have forests woven
a welcome with their boughts and fronds;
not for him have fountains scattered
a misty haze above their ponds.

A being made of mist, an azure grotto
tries vain enticement at his gaze;
his head cannot be cooled and freshened
by the fountainТs dewy haze.

Lord, send your blessing
to him who, trailing through lifeТs heat,
like some poor beggar past a garden,
along a dry road drags his blistered feet.

Translated by Frank Jude