Hey you there, Russia — my beloved land!
I feel so good within your deep green forests!
No singing heard, but I do sense it now,
I sense the song of some unseen strange chorus...
It was as if the wind drove me ahead,
Through all my land — it's villages and cities!
Yes, I was strong, but stronger was the wind,
I had no chance to stop and fix my breathing.
Hey you there, Russia — my beloved land!
My bond to you, your hay, your stalks of harvest,
My simple house amidst the endless fields,
Will hold right through, in spite the worst of hardships.
For all world's riches I won't give away
That lowly shack with nettle by the entrance,
Where in the evenings weary sun would move
Like some old friend into my humble chambers.
Where all the vastness, earthly and divine,
Would fill my window perfect peace and quiet,
Both bringing breeze of ancient days bygone,
And celebrating every day's own riot.
Привет, Россия — родина моя!
Как под твоей мне радостно листвою!
И пенья нет, но ясно слышу я
Незримых певчих пенье хоровое...
Как будто ветер гнал меня по ней,
По всей земле — по селам и столицам!
Я сильный был, но ветер был сильней,
И я нигде не мог остановиться.
Привет, Россия — родина моя!
Сильнее бурь, сильнее всякой воли
Любовь к твоим овинам у жнивья,
Любовь к тебе, изба в лазурном поле.
За все хоромы я не отдаю
Свой низкий дом с крапивой под оконцем.
Как миротворно в горницу мою
По вечерам закатывалось солнце!
Как весь простор, небесный и земной,
Дышал в оконце счастьем и покоем,
И достославной веял стариной,
И ликовал под ливнями и зноем!..
«Always so many pleas from a lover! / None when they fall out of love. / I’m so glad it plunges, the river, / Beneath colourless ice above. And I’m to stand — God help me! — / On the surface, fissured, gleaming, / With my letters, for posterity / To judge, in your safe keeping, ...»
«For the last time, we met, / On the embankment, as ever. / High water in the Neva, / Fear of flood in the city. He talked of the summer and said, / How absurd — a woman poet! / I remember the Tsar’s great palace, / The Peter and Paul fortress! — Then, the air was not ours, / Bu...»
«The high vault is bluer / Than the sky’s solid blue... / Forgive me, happy boy, / The death I brought you — For the roses from every place, / For your foolish words, / That your bold dark face / Pale with love, stirred. I thought: your purpose — / To show an adult’s pride. / ...»
«It’s endless — the heavy, amber day! / Impossible grief, pointless waiting! / And the silver-voiced deer, again, / Under the Northern Lights, belling. And I think there’s cold snow / A blue font for the poor and ill, / And a little sledge’s headlong flow, / To the ancient chime ...»