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
I like the Lutheran service, calm and grave,
I like its ritual, solemn and severe;
the message of these bare and empty walls
I bow to, I revere.
But don’t you see? Why surely you must know
that for the last time Faith is with us there.
She has not crossed the threshold yet to go,
but all is swept and bare.
She has not crossed the threshold on her way,
she has not gone for good, and closed the door.
But yet the hour has struck. Kneel down and pray,
for you will pray no more.
by Фёдор Иванович Тютчев (Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev)
(1834)
translated by Frances Cornford and Esther Polianowsky Salaman
Fun fact: Counted amongst the admirers of Tyutchev’s works were Dostoevsky and Tolstoy along with Nekrasov and Fet. Then later Osip Mandelstam who, in a passage approved of by Shalamov, believed that a Russian poet should not have copy of Tyutchev in his personal library – he should know all of Tyutchev off by heart.
A man met Rachel, in a valley. Jacob
Bowed courteously, this wanderer far from home.
Flocks, raising the hot dust, could not slake their
Thirst. The well was blocked with a huge stone.
Jacob wrenched the stone from the well
Of pure water, and the flocks drank their fill.
But the heart in his breast began to grieve,
It ached like an open wound.
He agreed that in Laban’s fields he should serve
Seven years to win the maiden’s hand.
For you, Rachel! Seven years in his eyes
No more than seven dazzling days.
But silver-loving Laban lives
In a web of cunning, and is unknown to grace.
He thinks: every deceit forgives
Itself to the glory of Laban’s house.
And he led Leah firmly to the tent
Where Jacob took her, blind and innocent.
Night drops from on high over the plains,
The cool dews pour,
And the youngest daughter of Laban groans,
Tearing the thick braids of her hair.
She curses her sister and reviles God, and
Begs the Angel of Death to descend.
And Jacob dreams the hour of paradise:
In the valley the clear spring,
The joyful look in Rachel’s eyes,
And her voice like a bird’s song.
Jacob, was it you who kissed me, loved
Me, and called me your black dove?
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1921)
– from Anno Domini MCMXXI translation by D. M. Thomas
Rambling At The Bridge Head 