Евгений Боратынский
(Баратынский)
(1800-1844)
На что вы, дни
На что вы, дни! Юдольный мир явленья
Свои не изменит!
Все ведомы, и только повторенья
Грядущее сулит.
Недаром ты металась и кипела,
Развитием спеша,
Свой подвиг ты свершила прежде тела,
Безумная душа!
И, тесный
круг подлунных впечатлений
Сомкнувшая давно,
Под веяньем возвратных сновидений
Ты дремлешь; а оно
Бессмысленно
глядит, как утро встанет,
Без нужды ночь сменя,
Как в мрак ночной бесплодный вечер канет,
Венец пустого дня!
1840 г.
d
Prose
Translation by Vladimir Nabokov
What use are ye, Days! The earthly world will not change its
phenomena. All are familiar and the future betokens nothing but repetition. Not
in vain, oh my foolish soul, hast thou tossed and seethed, madly hurrying on in
thy development: thou hast outrun the body in this race. Now, having long ago
brought to a close the narrow circle of earthly impressions and lulled by the
fanning motion of recurrent dreams, thou dozeth, whilst the body stolidly,
stupidly stares on, watching the morning come, which uselessly replaces the
night; then watching the fruitless evening drop into night’s darkness—crowning
another empty day.
[from V. Nabokov, Verses and Versions, Harcourt, Inc.,
2008, p. 227]
d
Literal
Translation
What are you for, days!
This vale of tears
Won’t change its ways
and phenomena!
All is already known,
and the future
Betokens nothing but repetition.
With good reason you’ve agonized
and roiled,
O my crazed soul!
In haste to develop,
You’ve forestalled the
body in the feat you’ve accomplished.
Now, having closed long
since
The tight circle of
sublunary impressions,
Lulled by the wafting of
recurrent dreams,
You drowse, while it
[the body]
Looks on fatuously at
the coming of morning,
Pointlessly replacing
the night,
At the fruitless evening
as it sinks into nocturnal murk,
Crowning one more empty
day!
d
Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
Whatever is the use of
you, O days?
The world has ways
perpetual, unending.
What is has been and
will be ever always,
The future saunters on
by long-trod paths unbending.
You’ve gainsaid the
body, my soul, and you’ve won,
Once anxious in
striving, while roiling in madness,
You’re reveling in
victory, you’ll not be outdone;
The body lies prostrate,
immured in rank drabness.
You’ve labored
intensely, the tight circle squaring,
A surfeit of earthly
impressions you’ve known,
But now, weary soul,
further striving foreswearing,
You drowse, waft in
dreamworlds sublime and high-flown.
While, meanwhile, the
body wallows in gormlessness,
Watches the morn
overwhelm the night’s sway,
Gawps as the eventide
sinks in night’s murkiness,
Crowning the pointlessness
of one more day.
d
Philip Larkin
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