Афанасий Фет
(1820-1892)
(1820-1892)
Жизнь пронеслась без явного следа.
Душа рвалась – кто скажет мне куда?
С какой заране избранною целью?
Но все мечты, всё буйство первых дней
С их радостью – всё тише, всё ясней
К последнему подходят новоселью.
Так, заверша беспутный свой побег,
С нагих полей летит колючий снег,
Гонимый ранней, буйною метелью,
И, на лесной остановясь глуши,
Сбирается в серебряной тиши
Глубокой и холодною постелью.
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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
Life has rushed
by and left so little trace.
The soul was thrust toward who could say what place?
And with what goal it knew of in advance?
But all my dreams, harsh tumult of first days,
Albeit joyful, languishing in haze,
Approach the final last-abode expanse.
Just so,
concluding its coarse bawdy spree,
From naked fields the prickly snow flies free,
Propelled by early blizzard fiercely blowing,
And halting on a wasteland mist-bedewed,
The flakes cohere in silence argent-hued
To form a frigid snowbed dimly glowing.
The soul was thrust toward who could say what place?
And with what goal it knew of in advance?
But all my dreams, harsh tumult of first days,
Albeit joyful, languishing in haze,
Approach the final last-abode expanse.
From naked fields the prickly snow flies free,
Propelled by early blizzard fiercely blowing,
And halting on a wasteland mist-bedewed,
The flakes cohere in silence argent-hued
To form a frigid snowbed dimly glowing.
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