Ivan Turgenev
I like to drive up to a village in the eve...

I like to drive up to a village in the eve,
To look at crows above the church and to believe —
        At height they are somehow playing.
Among the endless fields and flowery precious meads,
On quiet banks, amid the gardens went to weeds
        I like to listen to the baying

Of watchful dogs, to mooing of the weighty herds;
I like deserted parks all overgrown with herbs,
        And lime-trees’ shadows unshakable.
You stand stock-still when glassy air is as if
With you it listened to the sounds of the eve —
        Of feeling bliss you grow capable;

You have a thoughtful look at eyes of local men —
You understand them, their hard poor life, — and then
        You crave for artless and simple living;
An aged woman comes for water from the well,
The tall pole’s screaming, neighing horses at the pale:
        To them the water she’ll be giving.

A driving passer-by strikes up a mournful song
But utters daring cries, — his sadness is not long, —
        Away the horse hurtles at a canter;
A girl comes out on the low porch of the hut,
She watches sunset, her blue eyes feign funny shut,
        She’s reddened by the sun-a-painter.

Enormous carts are rocking slowly awhile
Descending from the hill in a single file
        With a strong-smelling corn-fields’ bounty;
Beyond the patches of compacted verdant hemp
Flows the open, dressed in a haze, both vast and ample
        Impressive steppe — eye-catching country.

This steppe is boundless indeed, it does not end,
A lively breeze streams over it a ceaseless strand,
        The earth is breathing, skies are blazing;
The forest’s brims are being touched with purple gold,
It’s telling something in the wind to rural world;
        Ample is the evening of amazing.

Translated by Vyacheslav Chistyakov