«I loved you once…»

by Alexander Púshkin (1799-1837)

I loved you once: the love of mine, it may be,

Within my soul has faded not in all;

But let it bother you for no more, let it;

I do desire to sadden you with naught.

I loved you once so hopelessly, so stilly,

Or jealousy, or dither had me quelled;

I loved you once so honestly, so dearly,

As God grants you t’ be loved by someone else.

1829

***

«On my own onto the road I enter…»

By Mikhail Lérmontov (1814-1841)

On my own onto the road I enter;

Stony pathway through the fog shines far;

Night is calm. The desert heeds the Maker,

And a star is talking to a star.

Solemnly and lovely in the heavens!

The Earth sleeps in the blue aureole...

Why is it so painful and so hard then?

Do I wait? or do I dream? for what?

From my life I wait already nothing,

And the past — I don't regret a bit;

Peace and freedom are what I am searching!

I would crave oblivion and sleep!

It’s not a cold grave sleep I seek and crave for...

Wish I could have slept for centuries,

That those vital powers dozed in chest, so

That, in breath, the chest would've quietly heaved;

That all night, all day to nurse my hearing,

The sweet voice would've sang to me 'bout love,

And above, endlessly evergreening,

The dark oak would've rustled and bowed down.

1841

 ***

Sneak out

by Marina Tsvetáeva (1892-1941)

But probably, the best conquest

Against the time and gravitation —

To pass, to left with no impress,

To pass, to left no shade, no mention

On walls...

And may be — by negation

Pick up and? Cross reflections out?

Just: Lermontov through the Caucasia

But sneak out, with no rocks alarmed.

And may be — best and perfect gag is

By finger of Sebastian Bach

To never touch the organ's echo.

Disintegrate, no ashes bulked

The urn...

And may be — by imposture

Pick up and? Leave the latitudes?

Just: by the time above the ocean

Sneak out, left waters undisturbed...

May 14, 1923

***

The Only Days

by Boris Pasternák (1890-1960)

Throughout the many winters I do hold

The memory about the solstice days,

And each of them was unrepeatable

And it repeated countless times and ways.

And soon these days have formed the whole parade

While stacking with each other bit by bit —

The only days when, seems like, in a way,

To us the time itself has just stood still.

I do remember all of them by heart:

The winter is approaching to its midst,

The roads get wet, the roofs are dripping hard,

And sun is basking on the ice floe tip.

And loving ones, like in a waking dream,

Stretch to each other faster than before,

And nesting boxes up there in the trees

Are sweating from the overwhelming warmth.

And sleepy clocks are lazy once again

To somehow toss and turn along its face,

And longer than a century lasts the day,

And there is no end for the embrace.

1957