Nikolay Zabolotsky
A woodland lake

Again the crystal dreamstruck vessel
Flashed in the darkness of the wood.

Past battling trees and quarrelling wolves,
Where insects drink the sap of plants,
Where stems writhe and flowers moan,
Where predatory nature disposes,
I pressed on towards you, halting upon
Your threshold — and parted the dry shrubbery.

There, wreathed in lilies, dressed in sedge,
With a brittle necklace of vegetable flutes,
Lay the chaste patch of limpid water,
A sanctuary for fish, a refuge for ducks.
But how strangely solemn and quiet it was!
Such nobility — where did it come from?
Why are birds not clamouring as usual? —
Instead they sleep, lulled by sweet dreams.
One solitary sandpiper complains of its lot,
Plays foolishly on a vegetable flute.

And the lake, in the tranquil glow of evening,
Lies in its depth, fixedly shining;
And pine trees, like candles, stand in their height,
Closing their ranks from edge to edge.
The fathomless vessel of limpid water
Shone, and thought its separate thought,
As, at the first glimmer of the evening star,
In infinite sadness, the sick man's eye,
No longer concerning itself with the ailing
Body, burns, gazing into the night sky.
And hordes of animals and wild beasts,
Thrusting their antlered heads between
The firs, lean over this source of truth, their font,
To drink of its life-giving waters.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort