The Poet
Until he hears Apollo's call
To make a hallowed sacrifice,
A Poet lives in feeble thrall
To people's empty vanities;
And silent is his sacred lyre,
His soul partakes of chilly sleep,
And of the world's unworthy sons
He is, perhaps, the very least.
But once Divinity's command
Approaches his exquisite ear,
The poet's soul awakens, poised,
Just like an eagle stirred from sleep.
All worldly pleasures leave him cold,
From common talk he stays aloof,
And will not lower his proud head
Before the nation's sacred cow.
Untamed and brooding, he takes flight,
Seething with sound and agitation,
To reach a sea-swept, desert shore,
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Imitation
I saw the Death, and she was seating
By quiet entrance at my own home,
I saw the doors were opened in my tomb,
And there, and there my hope was a-flitting
I'll die, and traces of my past
In days of future will be never sighted,
Look of my eyes will never be delighted
By dear look, in my existence last.
Farewell the somber world, where, precipice above,
My gloomy road was a-streaming,
Where life for me was never cheering,
Where I was loving, having not to love!
The dazzling heavens' azure curtain,
Beloved hills, the brook's enchanting dance,
You, mourn -- the inspiration's chance,
You, peaceful shades of wilderness, uncertain,
And all -- farewell, farewell at once.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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The Song Of The Kasak
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
Kazak has never heart for rest,
Not on the field, nor in the wood,
Nor when in face of danger pressed
His steed the raging stream must breast!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
With him a mighty power brings,
To win the honour of his land
Kazak his life unheeding flings-
Till fame of him eternal sings!
Kazak brought all Siberia
At foot of Russia's throne to lie,
Kazak left glory in the Alps,
His name the Turk can terrify,
His flag he ever carries high!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
Kazak has never heart for rest,
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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A Magic Moment I Remember
A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare
I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To vain the pursuits world esteems,
Long did I hear your soothing accents,
Long did your features haunt my dreams.
Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.
In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love.
Then came a moment of reinessance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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I love Thee
I loved thee; and perchance until this moment
Within my breast is smouldering still the fire!
Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,
Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!
I loved thee with a silent desperation--
Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,
I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion--
Ah may God grant another love thee so!
Another Translation:
I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Bound for your distant home
Bound for your distant home
you were leaving alien lands.
In an hour as sad as I’ve known
I wept over your hands.
My hands were numb and cold,
still trying to restrain
you, whom my hurt told
never to end this pain.
But you snatched your lips away
from our bitterest kiss.
You invoked another place
than the dismal exile of this.
You said, ‘When we meet again,
in the shadow of olive-trees,
we shall kiss, in a love without pain,
under cloudless infinities.’
But there, alas, where the sky
shines with blue radiance,
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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To
I remember the marvellous moment
you appeared before me,
like a transient vision,
like pure beauty’s spirit.
Lost in hopeless sadness,
lost in the loud world’s turmoil,
I heard your voice’s echo,
and often dreamed your features.
Years passed. The storm winds scattered,
with turbulent gusts, that dreaming.
I forgot your voice, its tenderness.
I forgot your lovely face.
Remote in my darkened exile,
the days dragged by so slowly,
without grace, without inspiration,
without life, without tears, without love.
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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To Chadaev
The lies of fame and love’s resolve
Have vanished now without a trace,
Our youthful passions have dissolved
As though a dream or morning haze.
Yet, still, we’re burning with desire,
And with impatience in our souls,
Beneath the yoke of strength and fire,
We hark our country’s pleading calls.
In expectation, full of ardor,
The day of freedom we await, --
Thus waits a youthful, eager lover
The moment of the promised date.
And whilst with liberty we burn,
And whilst our hearts adore ovation,
Our country needs us, - let us turn
And dedicate our soul’s elation.
My friend, believe me that with thunder,
The star of joy will rise again!
And Russia will arise from slumber,
Our names will be incised with wonder
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Demon
In bygone days when life's array -
The sweet song of the nightingale
And maidens' eyes, the rustling woods -
Still left a fresh impression on me,
When loftiness of feeling,
And freedom, glory, love
Artistic inspiration
So deeply stirred my blood,
My times of hope were cast in shade
And pleasure dimmed by longing,
For it was then an evil genius
Began to pay me secret visits.
Our meetings were quite dolorous:
His smile, his glance mysterious,
His venom-filled and caustic sermons
Poured frozen poison in my soul.
With endless slandering remarks
He tempted Providence;
He claimed that beauty's but a dream;
Felt scorn for inspiration;
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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To Natasha
The crimson summer now grows pale;
Clear, bright days now soar away;
Hazy mist spreads through the vale,
As the sleeping night turns gray;
The barren cornfields lose their gold;
The lively stream has now turned cold;
The curly woods are gray and stark,
And the heavens have grown dark.
Where are you, my light, Natasha?
No one's seen you, - I lament.
Don't you want to share the passion
Of this moment with a friend?
You have not yet met with me
By the pond, or by our tree,
Though the season has turned late,
We have not yet had a date.
Winter’s cold will soon arrive
Fields will freeze with frost, so bitter.
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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