Зимний вечер
Буря мглою небо кроет,
Вихри снежные крутя;
То, как зверь она завоет,
То заплачет как дитя,
То по кровле обветшалой
Вдруг соломой зашумит,
То, как путник запоздалый,
К нам в окошко постучит.
Наша ветхая лачужка
И печальна и темна.
Что же ты, моя старушка,
Приумолкла у окна?
Или бури завыванием
Ты мой друг утомлена,
Или дремлешь под жужжанием
Своего веретена?
Выпьем, добрая подружка
Бедной юности моей,
Выпьем с горя; где же кружка?
Сердцу будет веселей.
Спой мне песню, как синица
Тихо за морем жила;
Спой мне песню, как девица
За водой поутру шла.
Буря мглою небо кроет,
Вихри снежные крутя;
То, как зверь она завоет,
То заплачет как дитя.
Выпьем, добрая подружка
Бедной юности моей,
Выпьем с горя; где же кружка ?
Сердцу будет веселей.
1825
Александр Пушкин (1799-1837)
Winter evening
O’er the earth a storm is prowling,
Bringing whirling, blinding snow.
Like a beast I hear it howling,
Like an infant wailing low.
Now the thatch it rustles, playing
On our roof; now at our pane
Raps like someone homeward straying
And benighted in the plain.
Old our hut is, dark and dreary,
By a candle dimly lit…
Why so sad, my dear, and weary
At the window do you sit?
Is’t because the storm is moaning
That so very still you keep?
Does your spindle’s mournful droning
Put you quietly to sleep?
Come, O comrade solitary
Of this cheerless youth of mine,
Take a cup, and let us bury
All our many woes in wine!
Of a maid out by a river
Sing a little song to me
Or a tomtit, one that never
Leaves its home beyond the sea.
O’er the earth a storm is prowling,
Bringing whirling, blinding snow.
Like a beast I hear it howling,
Like an infant wailing low.
Come, O comrade solitary
Of this cheerless youth of mine,
Take a cup, and let us bury
All our many woes in wine!
Alexandr Pushkin
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
Winter evening
Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they are like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child;
Now along the brittle thatches
They will scud with rustling sound,
Now against the window latches
Like belated wanderers pound.
Our frail hut is glum and sullen,
Dim with twilight and with care.
Why, dear granny, have you fallen
Silent by the window there?
Has the gale’s insistent prodding
Made your drowsing senses numb,
Are you lulled to gentle nodding
By the whirling spindle’s hum?
Let us drink for grief, let’s drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where’s the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.
Sing me of the tomtit hatching
Safe beyond the ocean blue,
Sing about the maiden fetching
Water at the morning dew.
Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they sound like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child.
Let us drink for grief, let’s drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where’s the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.
Alexandr Pushkin
Translated by Walter Arndt
Winter evening
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.
Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel’s humming?
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief — Where’s the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Sing me a song of how the blue tit
Quietly lives across the sea.
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went to fetch water in the morning.
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief — Where’s the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Alexandr Pushkin
Translated by G. R. Ledger
Winter Evening
(To his old Nurse)
In black skies a storm is streaming,
Snowy whirlwind, rude and wild,
Like a savage beast now screaming,
Now lamenting like a child,
On the roof dilapidated
Shakes the thatch with sudden shocks,
Like a traveller belated
Loudly on the window knocks.
Our poor hut is old and crazy,
Melancholy and unlit.
Why, old friend, so still and lazy,
By the window do you sit?
Is there nothing you remember?
Has the loud wind struck you dumb?
Are you dropping off to slumber
With the spindle’s drowsy hum?
Let us drink, my friend, unshrinking
Helper in young manhood’s pain.
Where’s the cup? Grief calls for drinking!
Hearts will now be glad again!
Sing the Tomtit ever watching
Silently beyond the sea,
Sing the Maiden who went fetching
Water, — in the dawn went she.
In black skies a storm is streaming,
Snowy whirlwind, rude and wild,
Like a savage beast now screaming,
Now lamenting like a child.
Let us drink, my friend, unshrinking
Helper in young manhood’s pain.
Where’s the cup? Grief calls for drinking!
Hearts will now be glad again!
Alexandr Pushkin
Translated by Cecil Maurice Bowra
Winter evening
Storm clouds dim the sky; the tempest
Weaves the snow in patterns wild;
Like a beast the gale is howling
And now wailing like a child;
On the worn old roof it rustles
The piled thatch, and then again
Like a traveler belated
Knocks upon the windowpane.
Sad and dark our shabby cottage,
Indoors not a sound is heard.
Nanny, sitting at the window,
Can’t you give me just a word?
What is wrong, dear? Are you wearied
By the wind, so loud and rough?
Or the buzzing of your distaff —
Has that set you dozing off?
Let us drink, dear old companion,
You who shared my sorry start;
Get the mug and drown our troubles:
That’s the way to cheer the heart.
Sing the ballad of the titmouse
That beyond the seas had gone,
Or the song about the maiden
Fetching water just at dawn.
Storm clouds dim the sky; the tempest
Weaves the snow in patterns wild;
Like a beast the gale is howling
And now wailing like a child.
Let us drink, dear old companion,
You who shared my sorry start;
Get the mug and drown our troubles:
That’s the way to cheer the heart.
Alexandr Pushkin
Translated by Babette Deutsch
