A hen began to count her chicks:
One, two, three,
Four, five, six,
Seven, eight,
Nine and ten —
A lot of worry for one hen!
Стала курица считать
Маленьких цыпляток:
Желтых пять
И черных пять,
А всего десяток.
«Consume yourself with others’ pleas — / I’m left to my devices, thinking / Of glassy smoke of tresses’ tease, / Autumnal weary eyelids blinking. Oh, autumn comes! And it for me / than youth and summer is more precious. / But doubly pleasing you’re to me, / The poet’s thought...»
«The Russian bard since ancient times / Has yearned for countries strange and distant, / And most of all Caucasian climes / Have strangely lured with mist insistent. Here Pushkin, flamed with passion, wrote / With outcast’s lonely sad complaining: / "Do not, my beauty, single note / Of...»
«Mother dearest, is your heart still beating? / Mine is too, so greetings, Mum, to you! / And I hope that over home still fleeting / Evening light unspoken sheds its hue. Letters tell me you’re a little worried, / Seems my absence causes you distress, / They have seen you weeping as you...»
«By degrees we find we’re all departing / For the same serene and silent land. / And perhaps when soon that course I’m charting / Some possessions I will have to hand. Sweetest silver birches’ straggling covert! / Mother earth’s horizon’s sandy plain! / Hosts departing face me in...»