AUTUMN - by Aleksandr Pushkin

 

AUTUMN by  Aleksandr Pushkin (a fragment) "What then does not invade my drowsy mind?" (Derzhavin) 1 October's here already; the grove alreadyis shaking from bare branches its last leaves;the breath of autumn begins to ice the roadway,the stream still rushes gurgling past the mill,but the mill pond is frozen; my sporting neighbourhurries off with his pack to the far fields.The winter corn suffers his boisterous pleasure,his yelping hounds disturb the forest's slumber. 2 Now is my time. I bear no love for spring:the floods, the mud, the stink - I feel unhealthy,my blood ferments, longing chokes heart and mind.Better harsh winter; then I can feel happy,I love the snows, and then beneath the moonthe freedom of a sleigh ride, gliding swiftly,a fresh-faced girl, wrapped in sable furs,giving your hand a timid, passionate squeeze. 3 And what a joy to race across the mirrorof frozen ponds with sharp steel on your feet!And the excitement of those winter parties...!But there's a limit; the snow goes on for weeksand months, even a bear at length would sufferfrom boredom. After all, we can't devotea life to sleigh rides with these young Armidasor moping by the stove behind sealed windows. 4 Ah! gorgeous summer, I would love you, butthe heat, the dust, the flies, and the mosquitoes!You torture us; our souls, once rich, grow flat,we suffer like the barren fields, drought-stricken,just longing for some freshness, for a glass -that one thought fills our minds. We miss old winter,and having seen her off with cakes and wine,with ice and ice-cream we recall her reign. 5 People have harsh words for these days of autumn,but, reader, they are dear to me, I lovetheir unassuming light, their quiet beauty.Autumn attracts me like a neglected girlamong her sisters. And, to be quite honest,she is the only one that warms my heart.She has her good points; whimsically dreamingand free from vanity, I find her charms appealing. 6 How can I put it? She perhaps appealsas sometimes a young sufferer from consumptioncatches my eye. Unseen, her death awaits,and without protest, quietly she sickens;she cannot sense the yawning of the grave,but life fades from the lips that still are smiling;a rosy hue still plays around her eyes,today she is alive, tomorrow dies. 7 A mournful time of year! Its sad enchantmentflatters my vision with a parting grace -I love the sumptuous glow of fading nature,the forests clad in crimson and in gold,the shady coolness and the wind's dull roaring,the heavens all shrouded in a billowing mistand the rare gleams of sun, the early hoarfrosts,and distant grey-beard winter's gloomy portents. 8 Each autumn's coming makes me bloom anew;my health is well served by the cold of Russia;I feel a new love for the old routines,sleep has its turn, and after it comes hunger;the blood runs light and cheerful through the veins,desires flock in - happy again, and youthful,I'm full of life again - my organismis like that ( pardon my prosaicism). 9 Tossing his mane, my steed carries his riderover the open flatlands, and beneathhis glistening hooves he rouses up the echoesin frozen valleys and cracks the ringing ice.But then the short day fades, a fire blazesin the forgotten hearth, now casting a bright flame,now crumbling slowly, while I sit there readingor give my drifting thoughts their hour of freedom. 10 And I forget the world, in blissful peaceI am sweetly lulled by my imagination,and poetry awakens in me then;my soul, hard pressed by lyric agitation,trembles, resounds and seeks as if in sleepto surface finally in free expression -and I receive a host of guests unseen,old-time acquaintances, fruits of my dreams, 11 And in my head thoughts spring into existence,and rhymes dance out to meet them, and the handstretches toward the pen, the pen to paper,and verse comes unimpeded pouring out.So a ship, motionless in motionless water,lies dreaming, then suddenly the sailors raceand climb aloft, wind swells the sails, the vesselmoves slowly out, bow cutting through billows, 12 and sails away. Where shall we sail to ...?  Translated from Russian by Peter France