* * *

The flying wrack of clouds grows flimsier far.
O limpid star of sorrows, evening star!
Your rays have touched the autumn plains to silver,
The black heights of the rocks, the dreaming river.
Your feeble gleam in the night sky I love.
It prompts long-sleeping thoughts to stir and move,
As I recall, familiar Orb, your rising
Above that peaceful land, all joys comprising,
Where slender poplar in the valley grows,
Where tender myrtle and dark cypress doze,
And langurously the Southern seas are breaking.
There once strolled I, languidly cogitating,
High in the mountains, far above the sea.
Till, as the dusk flowed over vale and lea,
A maiden through the murk to seek you came
And told her fair friends how you bear her name.

Translated by Avril Pyman

A.S. Pushkin. “The heavy clouds at length are scattering...”. Translated by Avril Pyman // Alexander Pushkin. Collected Works: Parallel Russian Text and English Translation.
© Электронная публикация — РВБ, 2022—2024. Версия 2.1 от 30 ноября 2023 г.