Afanasy Fet

On a hay rick in lands of South,
I lay, while facing skies of night,
The choir of stars, alive and couth,   
Was trembling, spread at every side.

The earth, mute as a dream half-hidden,
Was fast receding into space,
And I, as if the first in Eden,
Alone met the black night’s face.

Did I race to the depth profound,
Or did the stars race strait to me?
In mighty hands, it seemed me how,
I hanged above abysmal sea.

With heart, so sinking and bewildered,
I measured with my look a depth,
Into which, every moment sighted,
I sink, and nobody helps. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March 20, 2001