I'm back at home. My dear land
Is pensive, spreading all around!
The twilight waves its snow-white hand
To greet me from beyond the mound.
The grizzle of the gloomy day
Is floating by over my home, and
The evening fills me with dismay
Like insurmountable torment.
Above the church, over the dome,
The sunset shade has fallen down.
My dear friends, I'm back at home,
And won't be seeing you around.
The years have flown like a whirl,
And where are you, my friends, I wonder?
All I can hear is the purl
Of water by the mill-house yonder.
And often, sitting by the hearth,
To sound of sedge crack, or whatever,
I pray to steaming mother earth
For those who're gone and lost for ever.
Я снова здесь, в семье родной,
Мой край, задумчивый и нежный!
Кудрявый сумрак за горой
Рукою машет белоснежной.
Седины пасмурного дня
Плывут всклокоченные мимо,
И грусть вечерняя меня
Волнует непреодолимо.
Над куполом церковных глав
Тень от зари упала ниже.
О други игрищ и забав,
Уж я вас больше не увижу!
В забвенье канули года,
Вослед и вы ушли куда-то.
И лишь по-прежнему вода
Шумит за мельницей крылатой.
И часто я в вечерней мгле,
Под звон надломленной осоки,
Молюсь дымящейся земле
О невозвратных и далёких.
«The pillow hot / On both sides, / The second candle / Dying, the ravens / Crying. Haven’t / Slept all night, too late / To dream of sleep… / How unbearably white / The blind on the white window. / Good morning, morning! »
«And with you, my first vagary, / I parted. In the east it turned blue. / You said simply: ‘I won’t forget you.’ / I didn’t know at first what you could mean. / / Rise and set, the other faces, / Dear today, and tomorrow gone. / Why is it that at this page / Alone the corner ...»
«A dusty waste-plot by the cemetery, / Behind it, a river flashing blue. / You said to me: ‘Go get thee to a nunnery, / Or get a fool to marry you…’ / / Well, princes are good at such speeches, / As a girl is quick to tears, – / But may those words stream like an ermine mantle ...»
«The enemy had burned his cottage home, / And murdered all his family. / So where can a soldier turn his steps, / To whom can he carry his sorrow? In his deep grief the soldier went / Until he came to a crossroad. / He found in the expanse of field / A mount that was overgrown with grass...»