Aleksandr Pushkin

Over shores covered by forest,
In the time of a mute eve’s
Noise and songs sail your tents over,
Over fires you cook with.

Hello, tribe whose life’s so easy!
I discern your fires’ dance;
In the days, sunk in the Lethe, 
I’d have lived in your gay tents.

In the first rays of the morning
Your free trace will be quite lost,
But your peaceful out-going
Will not have the bard of yours.

He, the roaming lodgings’ treasure
And the tricks of the gay old, 
Had left for the country pleasures
And the mute his home holds.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March 13, 2005