The blizzard buried the hedge,
Behind the window the snow still falls
While on the warm stove ledge
An old man his youth recalls.
«Eh, there were good seasons
In my life — nothing went wrong,
I had no worries, but the reasons
To carouse and sing the songs,
And now what life do I have?
I’m worried, and it’s madness
But at the times I remember
Those old days with sadness;
I had a long life (in my appendage)
I used it well to (...)
Even at my old age,
The freedom to say it I lack.
Don’t full me old knave
You are full of (...)
Your life is at the grave
Your end isn’t fit.
And so what, I submit, it’s true,
It looks like my fate,
But their time will come too,
Old age does emasculate;»
Behind the window, at the gates
Blizzard blew the snow in a heap
And on the warm stove ledge
The old man sadly fell asleep.
За окном, у ворот
Вьюга завывает,
А на печке старик
Юность вспоминает.
«Эх, была-де пора,
Жил, тоски не зная,
Лишь кутил да гулял,
Песни распевая.
А теперь что за жизнь?
В тоске изнываю
И порой о тех днях
С грустью вспоминаю.
Погулял на веку,
Говорят, довольно.
Размахнуть старину
Не дают раздолья.
Полно, дескать, старик,
Не дури ты много,
Твой конец не велик,
Жизнь твоя у гроба.
Ну и что ж, покорюсь, —
Видно, моя доля.
Придет им тоже час
Старческого горя».
За окном, у ворот
Вьюга завывает,
А на печке старик
С грустью засыпает.
«Wait for me and I’ll be back / Only wait for me, / When your sadness turns in black, / Yellow rains are free. / When the snows fall down like fate, / When there is a heat, / When the others cannot wait, / Don’t remember a bit. / Wait when from the far-far place / Letters cannot...»
«February. Get out the ink and weep! / Sob in February, sob and sing / While the wet snow rumbles in the street / And burns with the black spring. / / Take a cab. For a coin / Be carried through church bells, the chirp of tyres / To a place where the torrential rain / Is louder stil...»
«And I shall tell you at the end: / farewell, don’t pledge self to love, helpless. / I go mad, or just ascend / to the high echelon of madness. How had you loved? — You’d put aside / even the Death. But ‘tis not matter. / How had you loved? You’d done that right, / but you ...»
«No, tsarevich, it’s not I — / That you’re fancying in bliss, / Know, my lips just prophesy, / And no longer kiss. And it’s not because I’m tortured / Or by delirium swayed / That I conjure up misfortune: / It is just my trade. I can teach you this, as well, — / To achieve...»