Alexander Pushkin

Winter Evening

The storm covers skies in darkness, Spinning snowy whirlwinds tight, Now it wails like a beast wildest, Now it cries like a week child, Now suddenly it rustles The old roof’s dry thatching mass, Now, a traveller, late and gusty, It knocks at our window’s glass. Our hut, poor and unstable, Is the dark and sad to feel. Why, are you, my little old lady, Silent at the window-sill? Are you tired, o my dear, By the howling of the storm, Or just dozing while you hear The still hum your spindle from? Let us drink, o comrade, dear, Of my youth, so poor and hard, - ‘Gainst our woe; is a cup here? It will cheer the saddened heart. Sing a song about a blue-tit, Which, beyond the sea, lived well, Or about the maiden, bloomed, Who went early to a well. The storm covers skies with darkness, Spinning snowy whirlwinds tight; Now it wails like a beast wildest, Now it cries like a week child. Let us drink, o comrade dear Of my youth, so poor and hard, - ‘Gainst our woe; is a cup here? It will cheer the saddened heart. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver 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. Translated by Walter Arndt

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