Весенняя гроза
Люблю грозу в начале мая,
Когда весенний, первый гром,
Как бы резвяся и играя,
Грохочет в небе голубом.
Гремят раскаты молодые!
Вот дождик брызнул, пыль летит…
Повисли перлы дождевые,
И солнце нити золотит…
С горы бежит поток проворный,
В лесу не молкнет птичий гам,
И гам лесной, и шум нагорный —
Все вторит весело громам…
Ты скажешь: ветреная Геба,
Кормя Зевесова орла,
Громокипящий кубок с неба,
Смеясь, на землю пролила!
Фёдор Тютчев (1803-1873)
A Spring Storm
I love May’s first storms:
chuckling, sporting spring
grumbles in mock anger;
young thunder claps,
a spatter of rain and flying dust
and wet pearls hanging
threaded by sun-gold;
a speedy current scampers from the hills.
Such a commotion in the woods!
Noises cartwheel down the mountains.
Every sound is echoed round the sky.
You’d think capricious Hebe,
feeding the eagle of Zeus,
had raised a thunder-foaming goblet,
unable to restrain her mirth,
and tipped it on the earth.
Fyodor Tyutchev
Translation by F.Jude
Spring Storm
I love a storm in early May
When springtime’s boisterous, firstborn thunder
Over the sky will gaily wander
And growl and roar as though in play.
A peal, another — gleeful, cheering…
Rain, raindust… On the trees, behold!-
The drops hang, each a long pearl earring;
Bright sunshine paints the thin threads gold.
A stream downhill goes rushing reckless,
And in the woods the birds rejoice.
Din. Clamour. Noise. All nature echoes
The thunder’s youthful, merry voice.
You’ll say: ‘Tis laughing, carefree Hebe —
She fed her father’s eagle, and
The Storm Cup brimming with a seething
And bubbling wine dropped from her hand.
Fyodor Tyutchev
Translation by Translated by I.Zheleznova
