* * *

Beneath the azure of her native skies she drooped,
To fade, to vanish past returning;
It may be the young ghost above me briefly stooped
And swept me with a shadowy yearning.

But now between us lies a line I may not cross.
I cannot rouse the old devotion:
Indifferent lips were those that told me of my loss,
I learned of it without emotion.

So that is she who set my spirit all afire
With love that mingled tender sadness
And grievous straining, weary ache of sharp desire,
That was heart's torment and mind's madness!

Where is the torment now, the love? Alas, the host
Of memories that thus outlive you
Can stir no tears, you credulous, poor ghost,
In one with no regrets to give you.

Translated by Babette Deutsch

А.С. Пушкин. «Под небом голубым страны своей родной...» // Alexander Pushkin. Collected Works: Parallel Russian Text and English Translation.
© Электронная публикация — РВБ, 2022—2024. Версия 2.1 от 30 ноября 2023 г.