Has breathed, has wailed; from nothern shelf Enchanting winter comes herself.
XXX
It came, it scattered, it is hanging On boughs of the oak-trees;
It lies like carpets, white and waving, Among the fields, around hills.
The banks of stopped, unmoving river By shroud are equated here.
The frost is sparkling, we are glad To everyone of winter prank.
But Tanya’s heart yet isn’t gladdened, To meet the winter never came,
The frosty dust did not inhale, With early snow, as it happened,
Can’t wash her arms, her breast and face: Afraid she is of winter ways.
XXXI
Departuring date again's belated And can yet run the last of dates.
Upholsterers inspected, painted Renewed the old closed sleighs.
Of three kibitkas transport own Can bring belongings of the home:
The chairs, saucepans and the trunks, The matresses and jams in jars,
The feather beds, the cocks in cages, The basins, pots, et cetera,
Well, many trifles like the bra.
Among the servants-maids-teenagers.
Arose noise at parting grades: They bring from stables eighteen jades.
XXXII
They harness them in sleighs for road. The breakfast’s ready in the room.
They all kibitkas brim-full load. All men and women raise a boom.
On jade postillion’s sitting ragged, Emaciated, beard’s shaggy.
All servants gathered at the gate To part with barins.
Boom could fade.
They sat. The aging sleigh is sliding, Is stilly crawling through the gate.
‘Forgive, my place, my peaceful mate!
Forgive, secluded my asylum!
But shall I see you?’ - Tanya cries And sheds the tears from her eyes.
XXXIII
When we for better education Will widen more all needed frames
(In times, by thorough foundation Of philosophical best rates,
Five hundred years), roads, may be, In all the state will change invently:
The highways Russia will unite, Connect and cross its any side;
Cast-iron bridges over waters Will go like a bow wide;
At any sides we’ll hills divide, Will dig the tunnels under waters;
And christened world will have the will To build per station own inn.
XXXIV
We haven’t any decent road, Forgotten bridges all decay.
The bugs and fleas at stations lone Each minute take your sleep away.
The inns are absent.
Rooms are cold, In them some hungry but high-flown
A menu hangs for order’s sake And teases appetite in vain.
Meanwhile the Cyclops of the village In front of dimmish forge’s light
With Russian hammer and the might Return to sleighs the foreign image;
They bless the harmful ruts of land And ditches of the fatherland.
XXXV
But at the time of cold winter The drive is pleasant all the day:
Like senseless rhymes of stylish In winter’s even every way.
Automedones all are dashing {26} Untiring are troikas flashing.
Amusing idle gaze, all miles Are glimpsing like a fence in eyes.