Nikolay Klyuev
Fields are brown with such green borders...

Fields are brown with such green borders;
Sunset sleeps behind the firs.
And the rocks have mossy fissures
Where the springtime’s moisture stirs.

My wooded homeland is pleasant:
Backwoods, meadows, all around!
And the currant sheds a few tears
Hearing grass’s psalm-like sound.

I no longer feel my body,
For my heart is sprouting grain.
Come, come flying, all you white birds!
Peck the millet I contain!

The transparent dusk is flowing,
Hiding land, roof-ridges, eaves.
And the birch trees’ nuptial candles
Glimmer with the lights of leaves.

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks