|Твори О.С. Пушкіна.Переклад англійською мовою.> Autumn (An Excerpt)|
Then does a host of thoughts
my slumbering brain invade...
October has arrived; the grove the last remaining
Gold-speckled leaves sheds fast; the boughs hang brown and bare;
A brook beyond the mill winds gay and uncomplaining,
But ice sheathes pond and road — a nip is in the air;
Off, eager, to the chase my neighbour rides, restraining
His chafing horse no more while horns expectant blare,
And by the boisterous sport the distant fields lie shaken,
And baying, hoarse-voiced packs the sleeping woods awaken.
‘Tis autumn that I love; by spring am I laid low;
A thaw depresses me; I find my senses reeling,
A fever in my veins... The mud, the smells... A slow
Gloom on my heart descends... Contrariwise, how healing
Is winter with its frosts and sledge-rides o'er the snow,
Your love beside you, close, her trembling fingers stealing
Beneath the silky furs to curl around your own,
Their hot, their burning touch designed for you alone!
To don swift steel and glide o'er glassy streams — a merry
And pleasing way is this the wintry morn to spend!
Or else take winter's fetes — how sparkling they, how very
Blithe and packed full of thrills! And yet confess, dear friend,
That e'en the sleepy bear would find it dull to bury
Himself amid the snows for half a year on end.
To sleigh-ride with young nymphs or by a fire sit moping —
That this won't pall in time is, I insist, past hoping!
O beauteous summertime! I'd love you well without
The heat, the clouds of dust, the gnats and flies besetting
Mankind in buzzing swarms... Like fields we die of drought...
All our perceptions numbed, for lack of cool shade fretting
And of refreshing drink, we only think about
These simple needs, and winter's sure demise regretting,
The ancient dame send off with pancakes, and partake
Of quantities of ice and ices at her wake.
Late fall is viewed by most with unconcealed disfavour,
But I am spellbound held, dear readers, by its mild
And tranquil loveliness... No season is there braver,
More splendid in its way. Thus will an unloved child
My warm affections draw. Nay, friends, I do not waver
When I admit to it: my fancy is beguiled
By autumn's mellow charm. No vain or boastful lover,
The magic hid in it I waywardly discover.
I love it as one might — how shall I best explain? —
Love a consumptive maid who, though too early fated
To die, meets her decline ‘thout murmur, to complain
Unwilling... On her lips a smile still plays... Death's hated,
Grim visage is in sight, and yet her eye, 'tis plain,
Turns from his yawning jaws; he'll claim his long awaited,
Long sought-for prize, unseen... Her cheeks are flushed and red...
Today she is alive, and on the morrow, dead.
O drear and cheerless time, you charm the eye and tender
Contentment to the heart. How wondrous to behold
Your dying beauty is, the lush and sumptuous splendour
Of nature's farewell bloom: the forests clad in gold;
The wind's refreshing breath; the azure sky's surrender
To greyish, pearly haze; the pinch of early cold;
The fitful rays of sun that greet us for an instant,
And hoary winter's threats still undefined and distant.
When gracious autumn comes, my heart feels gay and light,
I am alive once more... Benign and salutary
Our Russian cold is, friends. My sleep, my appetite
It benefits, I vow. My very step grows airy;
The daily round of life brings me renewed delight;
Desires within me seethe... I'm young again and merry.
So am I built, so made, for which dull turns of speech
Your pardon, readers mine, herewith do I beseech.
My horse is brought to me, and off he races, winging
Across the boundless wastes of open field and way.
Beneath his flashing hoofs the frozen ground is ringing
And cracking here and there... But brief's the light of day,
It wanes; and in the grate a fire is lighted, bringing
A cheery warmth with it... Drawn by the freakish play
Of leaping, darting flames, I loll nearby, perusing
A book, or, wrapped in thought, of many things sit musing.
Then, all the world forgot, in dulcet quietude
I fall beneath the spell of dulcet fancy's dreaming,
And poetry is born within me, and a mood
Of lyric restlessness o’erwhelms my spirit, seeming
To make it quiver, sing, and seek, no more subdued,
To pour out free at last and chainless... Toward me streaming,
Come callers by the score, upon me fast they gain;
Old friends they are of mine, the offspring of my brain.
Thoughts flock to me in droves; they dance about and caper;
Swift rhymes to meet them rush; my fingers restive grow,
They boldly seek a pen; the pen, a sheet of paper...
A moment, and the verse will smoothly, freely flow.
So does a vessel doze till on her deck the dapper,
Quick-moving hands appear; up, down they creep, and lo! —
The winds fills out the sails, and, on her travels leaving,
The ship begins to move, the swelling waters cleaving.
She's off!.. Where are we bound, for what mist-covered shores?..
|Бібліотека ім. О. С. Пушкіна (м. Київ).