Translation of Poem by Aleksandr Pushkin, Александр Пушкин, "Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных," WHEN DOWN THE FESTIVE STREETS I WANDER

 

Александр Пушкин
(1799-1837)

Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных…

Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных,
Вхожу ль во многолюдный храм,
Сижу ль меж юношей безумных,
Я предаюсь моим мечтам.

Я говорю: промчатся годы,
И сколько здесь ни видно нас,
Мы все сойдем под вечны своды —
И чей-нибудь уж близок час.

Гляжу ль на дуб уединенный,
Я мыслю: патриарх лесов
Переживет мой век забвенный,
Как пережил он век отцов.

Младенца ль милого ласкаю,
Уже я думаю: прости!
Тебе я место уступаю:
Мне время тлеть, тебе цвести.

День каждый, каждую годину
Привык я думой провождать,
Грядущей смерти годовщину
Меж их стараясь угадать.

И где мне смерть пошлет судьбина?
В бою ли, в странствии, в волнах?
Или соседняя долина
Мой примет охладелый прах?

И хоть бесчувственному телу
Равно повсюду истлевать,
Но ближе к милому пределу
Мне все б хотелось почивать.

И пусть у гробового входа
Младая будет жизнь играть,
И равнодушная природа
Красою вечною сиять.

1829 г.

 

d

                                                                         Literal Translation
Whether I wander along noisy streets,
Or go into a cathedral full of people,
Or sit amidst madcap youths,
I devote myself to my daydreams.
 
I say: years will rush past,
And however many of us may be seen here now,
We’ll all descend beneath eternal vaults—
And someone’s hour is already near at hand.
 
Glancing at a solitary oak,
I think: this patriarch of the forest
Will outlive my oblivious age,
Just as it outlived the age of my fathers.
 
If I caress a dear young child,
Already I’m thinking: farewell!
I cede my place to you:
Time has come for me to rot, for you to bloom.
 
I’ve grown accustomed to see off with a thought
Each day, each year [that passes],
Amidst them trying to guess
The [future] anniversary of my imminent death.
 
And where will fate send me my death?
In battle, in wanderings, in waves?
Or will the neighboring vale
Receive my cold remains?
 
And although the body void of sensations
Cares not where it may decay,
I’d all the same prefer to rest
Near to the lands I love.
 
And let it be that at the entry to my grave
Young life will be at play,
And indifferent nature
Will gleam with its eternal beauty.
 
d
 
                                   Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
When down the festive streets I wander,
Whenever in crowded temples stand,
When with my madcap friends time squander,
I muse and bask in daydreams grand. 
 
I think: the years hasten past so infernally, 
Just cast a gaze upon those seated here,
We’ll all of us pass neath the vaults of eternity,
And someone’s hour already draws near. 

When gazing upon an oak lone and secluded,
I ponder: this forest patriarch
Will live far past my age deluded,
Watching me as it watched all my forebears depart.
 
While I caress a dear young child,
I’m bidding him farewell, saying goodbye,
Ceding my place with a gracious smile:
“Your time to bloom, my time to die.”
 
With each day’s, each year’s hasty passage,
I contemplate my waning breath,
Attempting to read fate’s dire message,
The anniversary day of my death.
 
And where will fate send death to me,
In war, in travel, in sea’s storm?
Or will some dale or nearby lea
Receive my body to feed the worm?
 
And though my flesh insensible
Cares not where it may waste away,
Long rest I’d find delectable
In earth beside some dear byway.
 
And at the entry to my grave
May young life ever gambol, frolic,
May rains insouciant soothe and lave
This scene of beauty, calm, bucolic.