Перевод стихотворения "Осень" А. С. Пушкина на английский.



                          What comes not then into my dormant mind?
                                                         Derzhavin


                    I

October came - the grove already throws
The last leaves off its naked limbs. 
An autumn cold had blown - the road froze,
Purling the brook beyond the mill still streams, 
But frozen is the pond; my neighbor promptly goes
To distant grounds with his hunting whims, 
And suffer winter crops the savage larking,
And sleeping oak woods are woken up with barking.

                    II

Now it is my time: for spring I do not love;
Thaw boring is to me; stench, mud - in spring I'm sick;   
Blood ferments; my senses, mind are troubled, thereof
I would prefer a winter bleak.
I love her snows; with the moon above 
How a sledge run with a girlfriend free and quick, 
When being warmed up and fresh in sable furs,
Ablaze and tremblingly she takes your hand in hers! 

                    III

Or having put on skates, how cheerful it is
To glide upon a mirror-like unyielding river flow!
And winter holidays' illuminating thrills?..
But it's high time to stop; for half a year snow and snow,
The lodger of a den, a bear finally will tire of all this.
For an eternity we simply cannot go
Riding in sledges with young dames
Or mope by firesides and double windowpanes.

                    IV

Oh, summer glorious! I'd love you as long as
There were no mosquitoes and flies, and dust, and heat.
Spoiling all mental faculties one has,
You torture us; we suffer from your drought like wheat;
Just to get watered and freshened up - no other thought in us,  
We start to pity winter, the old hag, indeed,
And with pancakes and wine having attended her demise,
Serve her commemoration with ice-cream and ice.

                    V

Days of late autumn they usually scold,                            
But I am fond of her, my dear reader,
Of that mild beauty shining submissively with gold.               
Just as to me an unloved child seems sweeter 
Among his own folks. And if the truth be told,                            
Of all the seasons hers alone I am a joyful greeter.                   
She has much good; a lover of no self-esteem,
I did find something in her with a willful dream. 

                    VI

How is it to be explained? I like her as you may
At times find charming a consumptive maid.
Condemned to death, poor thing withers away
Without a murmur, without hate.
A smile upon her faded lips is seen; she fails to pay 
Attention to the gaping grave before her laid;
Still crimson colour in her face she's got.
She's still alive today, tomorrow she is not.

                   VII

A gloomy time! Sensations' fascination!        
Your parting beauty pleasant to behold -     
I love the nature's rich dilapidation,                           
All forests clothed in crimson and in gold,
In their halls wind's noise and chilly respiration,
A wavy mist cast over the sky's vault,
And the first frosts, and a scarce sunny ray,
And hoary winter's threats from far away. 

                  VIII

And with each fall I blossom once again;                      
Cold weather makes my health feel stronger;        
Once more love to the habits of existence I regain;
By turn sleep flies away, by turn comes hunger;
Lightly and joyfully blood pulses in my vein,
Desires boil in me - I am happy, younger,  
I'm full of life again - such is my constitution
(Kindly forgive me this prosaic inclusion).

                  IX

A steed is brought to me; and in a shoreless space,                 
Tossing the mane, he swiftly goes,                                
And cracking ice and frozen vales 
Resound loudly under his shining hooves.                   
But the short day is out, in the forgotten fireplace 
A fire burns again - now it brightly glows,                    
Now grows dim - while I am reading by its side
Or nourishing long meditations in my mind.
	
                  X

And I forget the world - and in the sweet repose   
I'm sweetly lulled with my imagination,
And poetry in me comes forth:  
My soul is strained with lyric agitation, 
Sounds and thrills, and seeks like in a doze   
To vent itself at last in free manifestation -  
And here unseen guests come swarming in,                      
Acquaintances of old, the fruits of my dream.                        

                 XI

And in my mind thoughts vigorously caper, 
And airy rhymes onto them cling,
My fingers want a pen, the pen wants paper, 
A minute more - and verse shall freely spring.  
Thus quietly upon a quiet sea a vessel slumbers like a vapour,  
But hark! - all of a sudden sailors fling,
Climb up, down - and the sails are swollen, full of breeze;
The giantess is off and ploughs the seas.