There's a season alight with its own, strange shimmer
Of misted sun, most tenderly warm.
People call it
Indian summer
And it rivals the spring itself in charm.
Already the flying gossamer's clinging
Lightly, warily round the face...
How full is the tone of the late birds' singing!
How fierce and festive the flower-beds blaze!
The great rains have long since passed in thunder,
The dark, silent field has yielded its
More often a glance strikes a spark of wonder
More seldom, but blacker the jealous fits fall.
O generous wisdom of Indian summer,
I welcome you gratefully, but: Do you hear,
My lost love, where are you? Where are you? Come, answer!
But the woods have grown silent, the stars more austere...
You see now—the season of stardust is over.
I suppose it is time that we parted — and yet
It is only just now I've begun to discover
How to love and to cherish, forgive — and forget.
___
* In Russian Indian summer is called "Woman's summer".
Есть время природы особого света,
неяркого солнца, нежнейшего зноя.
Оно называется
бабье лето
и в прелести спорит с самою весною.
Уже на лицо осторожно садится
летучая, легкая паутина...
Как звонко поют запоздалые птицы!
Как пышно и грозно пылают куртины!
Давно отгремели могучие ливни,
все отдано тихой и темною нивой...
Все чаще от взгляда бываю счастливой,
все реже и горше бываю ревнивой.
О мудрость щедрейшего бабьего лета,
с отрадой тебя принимаю... И все же,
любовь моя, где ты, аукнемся, где ты?
А рощи безмолвны, а звезды все строже...
Вот видишь — проходит пора звездопада,
и, кажется, время навек разлучаться...
...А я лишь теперь понимаю, как надо
любить, и жалеть, и прощать, и прощаться.
«For want of a nail the shoe was lost, / For want of a shoe the horse was lost, / For want of a horse the rider was lost, / For want of a rider the battle was lost, / For want of a battle the kingdom was lost, / And all for the want of horseshoe nail.»
«On a holiday eve, a mistress toiled / At the tomorrow's fare / She baked, and fried, and stewed, and boiled. / Etcetera... Don't care. / / The weather yet was pretty bad, / With a cold wind; therefore, / The old man from his corner said, / "Old woman, close the door". / / "Next...»
«Thought, yet more thought! Poor artist of the word, / thought’s priest! For you there can be no forgetting; / it’s all here, here are people and the world / and death and life and truth without a veil. / Ah! Chisel, cello, brush, happy the man / drawn to you by his senses, going no fur...»
«No, I’m not Byron, I’m unknown; / I am, like him, a chosen one, / an exile hounded by this world — / only I bear a Russian soul. / An early start, an early end — / little indeed will I complete; / within my heart, as in a sea, / lie shattered hopes — a sunken load. / Grim ...»