<p>448. WINTER MORNING
<a l:href="#c_477"><sup>{*}</sup></a></p>A magic day — sunshine and frost —but you, in dreamland still are lost…Come, open your enchanting eyeswith honeyed indolence replete....Star of the North, arise to meetAurora in her wintry skies.That blizzard yesternight! It spreaddimness and tumult overheard.The moon through a lugubrious veilwas but a blur of jaundiced grey,and you were listless.... But to-day —well, let the window tell its tale:Fabulous carpets of rich snowunder the cloudless heavens glow.Alone the gauzy birches seemto show some black, while green occursamong the frost-bespangled firs,and blue-shot ice adorns the stream.The room is flooded with a lightlike amber, and with all its mightthe hot stove crackles. Lolling therein meditation is no doubtenjoyable… but what abouta sledge behind the chestnut mare?Sweet friend, together we shall speedyielding to our impatient steedon new-born whiteness, fleet and free,and visit silent fields of snow,woods that were lush two months ago,a lakeshore that is dear to me…<1947><p>Михаил Лермонтов
<a l:href="#c_478"><sup>{*}</sup></a></p><p>449. FAREWELL
<a l:href="#c_479"><sup>{*}</sup></a></p>Farewell! Nevermore shall we meet,we shall never touch hands — so farewell!Your heart is now free, but in nonewill it ever be happy to dwell.One moment together we came:time eternal is nothing to this!All senses we suddenly drained,burned all in the flame of one kiss.Farewell! And be wise, do not grieve:our love was too short for regret,and hard as we found it to partharder still would it be if we met.<Ноябрь 1941><p>450. MY NATIVE LAND
<a l:href="#c_480"><sup>{*}</sup></a></p>If I do love my land, strangely I love it:'tis something reason cannot cure.Glories of war I do not covet,but neither peace proud and secure,not the mysterious past and dim romancescan spur my soul to pleasant fancies.And still I love thee — why I hardly know:I love thy fields so coldly meditative,native dark swaying woods and nativerivers that sea-like foam and flow.In a clattering cart I love to travelon country roads: watching the rising star,yearning for sheltered sleep, my eyes unravelthe trembling lights of sad hamlets afar.I also love the smoke of burning stubble,vans huddled in the prairie night;corn on a hill crowned with the doublegrace of twin birches gleaming white.Few are the ones who feel the pleasureof seeing barns bursting with grain and hay,well-thatched cottage-roofs made to measureand shutters carved and windows gay.And when the evening dew is glistening,long may I hear the festive soundof rustic dancers stamping, whistlingwith drunkards clamoring around.<Ноябрь 1941>
