Aleksandr Pushkin

It grows thin -- the clouds flying bank;
The evening star, that in deep sadness sank,
Your beam had silvered the plains’ extinguished scopes.
The dreamy bay, the highland’s tops and slopes.
I like your frugal light on the celestial height:
It woke the sacred thoughts, which slept inside my heart.
I do recall your rise, star beautiful and sole,
Above the peaceful land, that pleases every soul,
Where slender poplars rise to skies in florid dells,
Where sleeps a gentle myrtle, and blackens a cypress,
And waves sing lullabies of the delightful South.
There, full of hearty thoughts, I pointlessly browsed
Amidst the silent rocks, and dragged the thoughtful sloth,
When night was covering the huts with its dark cloth,
And, in the dark, the lass was seeking me alone,
And telling her girlfriends my name in ways her own.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 1999
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 1999