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 from its naked limbs.
The autumn cold had blown - the road froze.
Purling, the brook beyond the mill still streams,
But frozen is the pond; my neighbour promptly goes
To distant grounds with a hunt of his,
And winter crops endure the savage larking,
And sleeping oak woods are woken up with barking.
II
Now it is my time. The spring I do not love;
The thaw is tedious to me; stench, mud - in spring I'm sick;
The blood ferments; my senses, mind are troubled; better off
I am at the harsh winter's peak,
I love her snows; attended by the moon above,
How the sleigh's run with a girlfriend is free and quick,
When warm and fresh under her sable furs,
Blushing and shivering, she takes your hand in hers!
III
Shod in sharp steel, how cheerful it is
To glide upon a mirror-like unyielding flow!
And the winter holidays' glittering thrills?..
But it's high time to stop; half a year - snow and snow,
The dweller of a den, a bear, may finally tire of all this.
For a whole century we simply cannot go
Riding in sledges with young Graces
Or mope by firesides and double window-cases.
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 modestly installed.
Just as to me an unloved child seems sweeter
Among her own kin. And if the truth be told,
Of all the seasons only hers I am a joyful greeter.
She has much good; a lover of little self-esteem,
I did find something in her with my wayward 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 has got.
She's still alive today, tomorrow she is not.
VII
A gloomy time! Sensations' fascination!
Your parting beauty is pleasant to behold -
I do love 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 rare 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 for the habits of existence I regain:
By turns sleep flies away, by turns comes hunger;
Lightly and joyfully blood courses through my veins,
Desires boil in me - I am happy, younger,
I'm full of life again - such is my organism
(Kindly forgive me for the needless prosaism).
IX
A steed is brought to me; and in the open space,
Tossing his mane, he swiftly goes,
And ice crusts crack and frozen vales
Resound loudly under his shining hooves.
But the short day dies 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 by my imagination,
And poetry in me comes forth:
My soul is strained with lyric agitation,
It sounds and thrills, and seeks, as in a doze,
To vent itself at last in a free manifestation -
And here unseen guests come swarming in,
Acquaintances of old, the fruits of my dream.
XI
And in my mind thoughts fearlessly caper,
And onto them airy rhymes cling,
My fingers want a pen, the pen wants paper,
A minute - and my verse shall freely spring.
Likewise upon a quiet sea a vessel slumbers like a vapour,
But hark! - all of a sudden sailors fling
Themselves, crawl up and down - and the sails swell, filled with the breeze;
The giantess is off and furrows the seas.
XII
She sails. Where shall we sail? ..............................
March - April 2018
![[Попков]](/img/s/sharafutdinow_f_z/pushkin/osen.jpg)
What comes not then into my dormant mind?
Derzhavin
I
October came - the grove already throws
The last leaves from its naked limbs.
The autumn cold had blown - the road froze.
Purling, the brook beyond the mill still streams,
But frozen is the pond; my neighbour promptly goes
To distant grounds with a hunt of his,
And winter crops endure the savage larking,
And sleeping oak woods are woken up with barking.
II
Now it is my time. The spring I do not love;
The thaw is tedious to me; stench, mud - in spring I'm sick;
The blood ferments; my senses, mind are troubled; better off
I am at the harsh winter's peak,
I love her snows; attended by the moon above,
How the sleigh's run with a girlfriend is free and quick,
When warm and fresh under her sable furs,
Blushing and shivering, she takes your hand in hers!
III
Shod in sharp steel, how cheerful it is
To glide upon a mirror-like unyielding flow!
And the winter holidays' glittering thrills?..
But it's high time to stop; half a year - snow and snow,
The dweller of a den, a bear, may finally tire of all this.
For a whole century we simply cannot go
Riding in sledges with young Graces
Or mope by firesides and double window-cases.
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 modestly installed.
Just as to me an unloved child seems sweeter
Among her own kin. And if the truth be told,
Of all the seasons only hers I am a joyful greeter.
She has much good; a lover of little self-esteem,
I did find something in her with my wayward 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 has got.
She's still alive today, tomorrow she is not.
VII
A gloomy time! Sensations' fascination!
Your parting beauty is pleasant to behold -
I do love 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 rare 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 for the habits of existence I regain:
By turns sleep flies away, by turns comes hunger;
Lightly and joyfully blood courses through my veins,
Desires boil in me - I am happy, younger,
I'm full of life again - such is my organism
(Kindly forgive me for the needless prosaism).
IX
A steed is brought to me; and in the open space,
Tossing his mane, he swiftly goes,
And ice crusts crack and frozen vales
Resound loudly under his shining hooves.
But the short day dies 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 by my imagination,
And poetry in me comes forth:
My soul is strained with lyric agitation,
It sounds and thrills, and seeks, as in a doze,
To vent itself at last in a free manifestation -
And here unseen guests come swarming in,
Acquaintances of old, the fruits of my dream.
XI
And in my mind thoughts fearlessly caper,
And onto them airy rhymes cling,
My fingers want a pen, the pen wants paper,
A minute - and my verse shall freely spring.
Likewise upon a quiet sea a vessel slumbers like a vapour,
But hark! - all of a sudden sailors fling
Themselves, crawl up and down - and the sails swell, filled with the breeze;
The giantess is off and furrows the seas.
XII
She sails. Where shall we sail? ..............................
March - April 2018