|Твори О.С. Пушкіна.Переклад англійською мовою.> "Whether the streets I roam..."|
Whether the streets I roam, a crowded
Church enter, or drown care with friends,
It matters not: e’er am I hounded
By thought of life and of its end.
This do I think: swift is life's passage,
And all of us now gathered here
Will glimpse ere long Death's dreaded visage;
Already someone's hour draws near.
Upon an ancient oak-tree gazing,
I whisper, awed: "When I am gone
It will be here, the woodland gracing;
My fathers went — the tree grows on!"
And playing with a child, I murmur:
"Farewell!.. My place I cede... The hour
Is close at hand — My life is over—
For me to rot, for you to flower."
Each day, each year that passes, transient,
I follow mute to its decline,
The moment of my doom, impatient,
In vain attempting to divine.
Will I be claimed by death in warfare,
Whilst on my travels? Mid the waves?
Or will a neighbouring valley offer
My cold remains a quiet grave?
Where to be laid in sleep eternal
Is all the same to lifeless clay.
Yet 'tis beneath the skies maternal
That I would rest... Day upon day
Over my tomb let Life, e’er youthful,
A fountain, flow in sheer delight,
And Nature, beautiful and wistful,
Shed upon all its dazzling light.
|Бібліотека ім. О. С. Пушкіна (м. Київ).