It’s time my friends, it’s time. We long for peace
of heart. But days chase days and every hour
gone by means one less hour to come. We live
our lives, dear friend, in hope of life, then die.
There is no happiness on earth, but peace
exists, and freedom too. Tired slave, I dream
of flight, of taking refuge in some far-
off home of quiet joys and honest labour.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
a.k.a. Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin
(1834)
translated by Robert Chandler
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.
There is joy in battle,
poised on a chasm’s edge,
and in black ocean’s rage –
that whirl of darkening wind and wave –
in an Arabian sandstorm,
and in a breath of plague.
Within each breath of death
lives joy, lives secret joy
for mortal hearts, a pledge,
perhaps, of immortality,
and blessed is he who, storm-tossed,
can see and seize this joy.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
a.k.a. Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin
(1830)
translated by Robert Chandler
Fun Facts: This is one of Pushkin’s ‘Little Tragedies’, an adaption of part of a play by a Scottish writer, John Wilson. The song this excerpt is from is of Pushkin’s own original composition though.
from The Captain’s Daughter
Our lovely apple tree
has no young shoots and no fine crown;
our lovely bride
has no dear father and no dear mother.
No one to dress her
in a wedding gown,
no one to bless her.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
a.k.a. Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin
(1836)
translated by Robert Chandler
Part Black Sea merchant, part milord,
a half-baked sage and halfwit fool,
a semi-scoundrel – but there’s hope
his scoundrelhood may soon be full.
by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)
a.k.a. Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin
(1824)
translated by Robert Chandler
Fun fact: The subject of this epigram poem is Count Mikhail Vorontsov (1782-1856) the Governor General of ‘New Russia and of Bessarabia’, which consisted of most of southern Russia. Vorontsov was Pushkin’s boss during much of his southern exile.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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