The enemy had burned his cottage home,
And murdered all his family.
So where can a soldier turn his steps,
To whom can he carry his sorrow?
In his deep grief the soldier went
Until he came to a crossroad.
He found in the expanse of field
A mount that was overgrown with grass.
The soldier stood and choked back
The lumps he felt rising in his throat.
The soldier said: "Praskovya, welcome home
A hero — it's your husband.
"Prepare refreshments for your guest,
Lay the wide table in the house —
My day, the occasion of my return,
I've come to celebrate with you..."
There was nobody to answer him,
And nobody to meet the soldier,
It was only the warm breeze of summer
That stirred the grass upon the grave.
The soldier sighed, adjusted his belt,
And opening his soldier's knapsack,
He then placed a little bottle
Upon the gray tombstone and said:
"Do not blame me, Praskovya,
That I have come to you like this:
I meant to drink your health,
And now must drink that you should rest in peace.
"Boys and girls will be reunited,
But you and I shall never be..."
The soldier drank from a copper cup
Wine and sorrow half and half.
He drank, the soldier, the people's servant,
And with sore heart said then:
"It took four years for me to reach you;
I subdued three countries on my way."
The soldier grew tipsy, and a tear
Rolled down, for all his shattered hopes,
And on his breast there shone a medal
For capturing Budapest.
Враги сожгли родную хату,
Сгубили всю его семью.
Куда ж теперь идти солдату,
Кому нести печаль свою?
Пошел солдат в глубоком горе
На перекресток двух дорог,
Нашел солдат в широком поле
Травой заросший бугорок.
Стоит солдат — и словно комья
Застряли в горле у него.
Сказал солдат: «Встречай, Прасковья,
Героя — мужа своего.
Готовь для гостя угощенье,
Накрой в избе широкий стол, —
Свой день, свой праздник возвращенья
К тебе я праздновать пришел...»
Никто солдату не ответил,
Никто его не повстречал,
И только теплый летний ветер
Траву могильную качал.
Вздохнул солдат, ремень поправил,
Раскрыл мешок походный свой,
Бутылку горькую поставил
На серый камень гробовой.
«Не осуждай меня, Прасковья,
Что я пришел к тебе такой:
Хотел я выпить за здоровье,
А должен пить за упокой.
Сойдутся вновь друзья, подружки,
Но не сойтись вовеки нам...»
И пил солдат из медной кружки
Вино с печалью пополам.
Он пил - солдат, слуга народа,
И с болью в сердце говорил:
«Я шел к тебе четыре года,
Я три державы покорил...»
Хмелел солдат, слеза катилась,
Слеза несбывшихся надежд,
И на груди его светилась
Медаль за город Будапешт.
«You’re here again – and of a sudden / A warmth long gone floods my dead heart, / And all I thought forgot, unbidden / Returns, of me becomes a part. Just as spring’s breath may soft come stealing / Upon the air on late fall’s day / And rouse in us a vanished feeling / Of life, o...»
«I met you and the past / came back to life in my dead heart. / Remembering a golden time, / my heart became so warm. Just as in late autumn / there are days, the transient hour, / when suddenly spring wafts again / and something stirs within us, so, winnowed within by the breath ...»
«I love May’s first storms: / chuckling, sporting spring / grumbles in mock anger; / young thunder claps, a spatter of rain and flying dust / and wet pearls hanging / threaded by sun-gold; / a speedy current scampers from the hills. Such a commotion in the woods! / Noises cartwheel ...»
«I love spring storms — the rain, the lightning — / When in the early weeks of May / Young thunder, playing and delighting, / Resounds and shatters in blue sky. Electric passion bursts and shimmers, / Rain sprinkles, sparkling dust flies on, / In air the pearl strands shine and gl...»