The shining skies are now blued.
Yet limpid is the near wood
As if by greenish down covered.
A bee to fields, of tribute well,
Is flying from the waxy cell.
Are drying valleys many-coloured;
The herds make noise; of nightingale The song at silent night is gay.
II
Quite sad for me is your occurence, The spring, the spring! of love the time!
What languid agitation current There is in blood and soul mine!
With hard emotion yet tender I am enjoyed by breath such gentle
Of puffing to my face the spring In bosom of the country’s still!
Or am I stranger to enjoyments, To all that gladdens and revives,
Triumphant is and gladly shines, Is boring me, makes suffer torments
My soul, long ago dead, And all for it seems dark ahead?
III
Or aren’t we glad to see returning Of perished in the autumn leaves
Because remember bitter mourning When hear noise of forest’s thicks?
Or with the nature just reviving We close in, confused by minding
The withering of own days, Which can’t revive by any ways?
May be, the thought to us is coming Amid poetical a dream
Of other, old, better spring, And all the heart it is alarming
By dreams of distant pretty side, About moon and charming night...
IV
Is time: all good but lazy-bone Epicurean wise all men,
You all indifferent, lucky, prone Of Levshin school the pupils, fans, {24}
You, country Priams, should be ready; And you, each sensitive a lady:
The spring to country all you calls, The time of work, of fruits, of warmth,
The time for strolles, much inspired, And all seductive, tempting nights.
Be quick, my friends! the field invites. In carts with weights of food, attires,
By own or by post-chase You get away from city gates.
V
And you, my reader dear, gracious, In your borouch from other land
You leave your city big, audacious, In which the winter’s mirth you’d had.
With dear muse of mine capricious Let’s hear forest’s noise delicious
At nameless river, small and fine. In village where Eugene mine,
That hermit idle and despondent Yet recently in winter lived
Not far from Tanya, young and grieved, My dear dreamer quite respondent;
But where now he is not... And where left he dismal rot.
VI
Among the hills in semicircle Well go there where brook
Through grass is snaking, green and purple, Through linden trees for river’s crook.
The nightingales, of spring the lovers, At night all sing: dog-rose flowers;
You hear voice of little source, You see grave-stone small and coarce
In shade of two pine-trees quite old; Inscription can to you explain:
‘Vladimir Lensky here’s lain, He met his death like man quite hold
At such a year, such an age.
You lie, young hard, in peace all age!’
VII
On branches of the pine permissive Sometimes an early morning wind