There the apple, pear-trees were blooming,
Mists were flying over the creeks.
And Katyusha on the bank had stepped to,
On the river bank, so high and steep.
She went out with a song delightful
All about her grey steppe eagle strong,
All about him, whom she loved heartly,
All about him, whose letters stored.
Hey, the maiden's song, fly out far away
After sun, that's shining in the sky,
And, please, take the deep and friendly welcome
To her soldier -— the frontier guard.
Let him recollect his simple lady,
Let him hear, how she does sing,
Let him guard his native land with merit,
And his love Katyusha will then keep.
There apple, pear-trees were blooming,
Mists were flying over the creeks.
And Katyusha on the bank had stepped to,
On the river bank, so high and steep.
Расцветали яблони и груши,
Поплыли туманы над рекой.
Выходила на берег Катюша,
На высокий берег на крутой.
Выходила, песню заводила
Про степного сизого орла,
Про того, которого любила,
Про того, чьи письма берегла.
Ой ты, песня, песенка девичья,
Ты лети за ясным солнцем вслед:
И бойцу на дальнем пограничье
От Катюши передай привет.
Пусть он вспомнит девушку простую,
Пусть услышит, как она поет,
Пусть он землю бережет родную,
А любовь Катюша сбережет.
Расцветали яблони и груши,
Поплыли туманы над рекой.
Выходила на берег Катюша,
На высокий берег на крутой.
«I like things which are calm and forlorn: / Lights that shine through the stream's foggy gloom, / The long-dying sunset's poverty, / The October chrysanthemum bloom, The triteness of "Songs Without Words", / Quiet graves with no names at their side — / All that Annensky avidly loved, / ...»
«Here is reward for all my sins, / This triumph and disgrace: / A poem suddenly begins / From nothing, from no place. The words come magically half-dressed, / Wearing haphazard clothes, / Like roses falling on my chest... / — And you, toss me a rose! No, throw it past that cloud that ...»
«Upon fresh ground falls and melts / At once unnoticed a thin film. / The harsh and chilly spring / The ripened buds does kill. / Sight of early death is so horrid / That I can't look at God's creation, and am riven / With sadness, to which king David / Millenia of life has given.»
«Why do you pretend to be / A wind, a bird, or a stone? / Why do you smile at me / From the sky with a sudden dawn? Do not torment me, do not touch! / Leave me to wise cares, away! / The inebriated flame sways / Over dried-up marshes gray. And Muse in a torn kerchief / Sings disconsol...»