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FET, Afanasy

Do not wake her at dawn

Wake her not out of sleep at the dawn,

At the dawn she is sleeping too sweet.

On her breast there is breath of the morn,

On the cheeks dimples are blooming with it.

Hot is this sound sleep of the maid’s

Yet she now is foreign to trouble;

By the shoulders are running her braids

Like dark ribbons on snow-white marble.

Very long at the window last eve

Quite alone she was watching the moon

That was playing with clouds as if

Wished to tease them while lovesome and boon.

And the more tender night got opaque,

And the louder sang a nightingale,

More and more she was feeling sweet ache,

From excitement she was turning pale.

That is why are caressed by the morn

Her young breasts and the dimples, indeed.

Wake her not out of sleep at the dawn...

At the dawn she is sleeping too sweet.

When you read these anguished lines

When you read these anguished lines

Where from heart’s roaring blaze the flames issue,

And passion’s fatal flood swells and climbs,

Do they speak never a word to you?

How to credit it! In the steppe, that night,

When through midnight’s fog premature dawn,

Translucent, lovely, in miraculous light,

For you, out of the darkness, was born,

And beauty to unwilling eyes made plain,

Drawn to those glories that the darkness rive,

How can it be that nothing whispered then:

‘There a man was burned alive’?

Translation KLINE, A.S.

I won’t tell you anything

I won't tell you anything

And I do not disturb you at all,

And that I silently say,

I will not dare to hint for anything.

Night flowers sleep all day,

But only the sun sets behind the grove,

Quiet sheets unfold,

And I hear the heart bloom.

And in a sick, tired chest

Blows moisture night ... I shiver

I won't disturb you at all

I won't tell you anything.

I have come to you, delighted

I have come to you, delighted,

To tell you that sun has risen,

That its light has warmly started

To fulfil on leaves its dancing;

To tell you that wood’s awaken

In its every branch and leafage,

And with every bird is shaken,

Thirsty of the springy image;

To tell you that I’ve come now,

As before, with former passion,

That my soul again is bound

To serve you and your elation;

That the charming breath of gladness

Came to me from all-all places,

I don’t know what I’ll sing, else,

But my song’s coming to readiness.

My Face Turned Upwards To The Sky

My face turned upwards to the sky

One summer night I lay upon some hay

A lively close-knit starry chorus

Was flickering all around.

The mute earth, nebulous and dreamlike,

Rushed off without a trace

And I, like Eden's first inhabitant,

Faced night's gaze all alone.

Was it I hurtling into midnight's depths

Or was it crowds of stars that hurtled toward me?

It seemed as if a mighty palm

Held me suspended over the abyss.

And with a heart confused and stunned

I cast my gaze into the depths,

Whence sinking every moment deeper,

I never will return.

What Grief! The Alley's End

What grief! The alley's end

Is lost in snow again today,

And once again, the silver snakes

Are crawling through the snow.

The sky's without a patch of blue,

The steppe's completely smooth and white,

A single crow is struggling hard

To beat its wings against the storm.

My soul is frozen as the land,

There is no sign of dawning there.

My languid thought drops off to sleep

Above my slowly dying work.

But in my heart still glows a hope

That accidentally, perhaps,

My soul will once again grow young

And see its native home once more,

A land where storms may come and go,

Where thought is passionate and pure,-

And where a chosen few can see

How spring and beauty bloom.