City of splendour, city of poor,
spirit of grace and servitude,
heaven’s vault of palest lime,
boredom, granite, bitter cold –
still I miss you rather, for
down your streets from time to time
one may spy a tiny foot,
one may glimpse a lock of gold.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
a.k.a. Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin
(1828)
translated by Anthony Wood
Fun fact: Pushkin is most likely alluding to St Petersburg prior to his exile.
My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud,
but I am living; somewhere in the world
someone looks kindly on my life; far off
a distant fellow-man will read my words
and find my being; and, who knows, my soul
will raise an echo in his soul, and I
who found a friend in my own time,
will find a reader in posterity.
by Евгений Абрамович Баратынский (Yevgeny Abramovich Baratynsky)
(1828)
translated by Peter France
Gift haphazard, unavailing,
Life, why wert thou given to me?
Why art thou to death unfailing
Sentencing by dark destiny?
Who in harsh despotic fashion
Once from Nothing called me out,
Filled my soul with burning passion
Vexed and shook my mind with doubt?
I can see no goal before me:
Empty heart and idle mind.
life monotonously o’er me
Roars, and leaves a wound behind.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
translated by C. M. Bowra
Rambling At The Bridge Head 