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By
Alexander Pushkin
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.
Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel's humming?
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THOUGHTS
Брожу ли я вдолъ улиц шумных,
Вхожу лъ во многолюдный храм,
Сижу лъ меж юношей безумных,
Я предаюсъ моим мечтам.
Я говорю: промчатся годы,
И сколко здесъ ни видно нас,
Мы все сойдём под вечны своды,
И чей-нибудъ уж близок час.
Глажу лъ на дуб уединённый,
Я мыслу: патриарх лесов
Переживёт мой век забвенный,
Как пережил он век отцов.
Младенца лъ милово ласкаю,
Уже я думаю: прости!
Тебе я место уступаю:
Мне время тлетъ, тебе цвести.
Денъ каждый, каждую годину
Привык я думой провождатъ,
Градущей смерти годовщину
Меж их стараясъ угадатъ.
И где мне смертъ пошлёт судъбина?
В бою ли, в странствии, в волнах?
Или соседняя долина
Мой примет охладелый прах?
Н хотъ бесчуственному телу
Равно повсюду истлеватъ,
Но ближе к милому пределу
Мне всё б хотелосъ почиватъ.
И пустъ у гробовово входа
Младая будет жизнъ игратъ,
И равнодушнаяа природа
Красою вечною сиятъ.
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By Pushkin.
If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.
I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.
When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.
If I dandle a young infant,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.
Each day, and every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.
And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?
And
although to the senseless body
It
is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.
And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.
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