Forgotten, cold, my dust will fall asleep while you are entering your life's sweet May. One moment then, with magnanimity, read through these versesthat once came to me.
And with a maiden's keen and thoughtful heart you'll understand my words' wild ecstasy, and why it was I often left the world for trembling song, and you will follow me.
Through salutations springing from the grave the heart's eternal truth will be revealed. We two shall breathe a life outside of time; and we shall meet – here – as you read.
by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet) a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin) (1883) translated by Robert Chandler
Beneath is the original Russian Cyrillic version:
Мой прах уснет забытый и холодный, А для тебя настанет жизни май; О, хоть на миг душою благородной Тогда стихам, звучавшим мне, внимай!
И вдумчивым и чутким сердцем девы Безумных снов волненья ты поймёшь И от чего в дрожащие напевы Я уходил - и ты за мной уйдёшь.
Приветами, встающими из гроба, Сердечных тайн бессмертье ты проверь. Вневременной повеем жизнью оба, И ты и я - мы встретимся - теперь!
Beneath is a recital of the Russian version of the poem set to music:
Additional information: [Теперь : verb: Now, Nowadays, Today]. I don’t know why Chandler chose to translate the title as ‘Here‘ save as a possible cultural equivilant for English speakers to understand a Russian nuance of the word Теперь implying ‘here, right now, in the present’. It’s also possible he wanted to ensure his translation would be distinctly titled, for ease of reference, from the work of others translating the same source material.
Easter. I go to church to proclaim with my fellows I believe in the Ressurection - of what? Here everything is electric and automatic. In April a myriad bulbs are switched on as flowers incandesce; a new generation of creatures rehearses its genetic code. All this is easy. Earth is a self-regulating machine; everything happens because it must. My faith is in the inevitability of creation. There will come a day - dust under a dry sun, ashes under its incineration... is there somewhere in all the emptiness of the universe a fertile star where the old metaphors wil apply, where the bugling daffodil will sound abroad not the last post, but a gush of music out of an empty tomb?