Зимняя дорога
Сквозь волнистые туманы
Пробирается луна,
На печальные поляны
Льет печально свет она.
По дороге зимней, скучной
Тройка борзая бежит,
Колокольчик однозвучный
Утомительно гремит.
Что-то слышится родное
В долгих песнях ямщика:
То разгулье удалое,
То сердечная тоска…
Ни огня, ни черной хаты,
Глушь и снег… Навстречу мне
Только версты полосаты
Попадаются одне…
Скучно, грустно… Завтра, Нина,
Завтра к милой возвратясь,
Я забудусь у камина,
Загляжусь не наглядясь.
Звучно стрелка часовая
Мерный круг свой совершит,
И, докучных удаляя,
Полночь нас не разлучит.
Грустно, Нина: путь мой скучен,
Дремля смолкнул мой ямщик,
Колокольчик однозвучен,
Отуманен лунный лик.
1926
Александр Пушкин (1799–1837)
Wintry Road
Slow the moon, embraced by shadow,
Climbs the hilly clouds of night
And upon the cheerless meadow
Sadly pours its pallid light.
Down the road, as white and eerie
As the wintry, boundless lea,
Runs my troika, and the weary
Sleigh-bell jangles drowsily.
In the driver’s song unending
Much is there that speaks to me,
Now a plaint, my spirit rending,
Now a reckless gaiety…
All around is snow, and nothing,
Not a light to cheer the eye;
Mileposts rush to meet me, nodding
As they pass indifferent by.
But, my Nina, on the morrow,
By the fire’s unsteady blaze,
I will drown my gloom, my sorrow
And my dullness in your gaze.
Let the clock, its passage charted,
Midnight strike; we’ll not, my own,
Once the others leave, be parted,
But stay on — stay on alone.
Sad am I… The night encloses
Field and wood… The moon looms wan…
In his seat the driver dozes,
Through the snow the road drags on.
1826
Alexander Pushkin
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
Winter Journey
Down through shivering fog, the moon now
Makes its way across the night,
Soaking melancholy meadows
In a melancholy light.
Down the road through dismal winter,
My quick carriage carries on
And the sleigh-bell’s tuneless tinkle
Is a numbing monotone.
Notes familiar in the music
Of the coachman’s winding song
Go from debonair carousal
To lamenting lovers’ wrong.
Neither hut nor glowing window.
Snow and wasteland now. My eye
Merely marks the ciphered mileposts
Coming close and going by.
Snow and wasteland. But tomorrow
Darling Nina, I’ll return
To your hearth and face, forgoing
All my thought to gaze and yearn.
Though the clock’s unhurried finger
Strike its circle out anew
Sending home the tardy stranger,
Midnight shall not part us two.
But for now the road is dreary.
Sleep has hushed the coachman’s tune.
Tedious, too, the tuneless sleigh-bell.
Fog is masking out the moon.
Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A. Z. Foreman
