And all the open land around we scour;
We lose two hares; at last, at some late hour,
Reach home. What fun in store! A blizzard whines;
Dim candles burn; the heart contracts and pines;
I take that poison, boredom, drop by drop.
I try to read; the letters fade; I stop,
My thoughts are far away … I close the book
And take a pen, and settle in a nook:
My drowsy muse finds random words, and line
20Will not fit line; I lose control of rhyme,
My giddy-minded handmaid; vague in gist,
The stiff, cold verse limps on as through a mist.
I weary of the wrangle with my lyre,
And seek the parlour: talk before the fire
Is of the mill, the election that impends;
The hostess, frowning like the elements,
Knits with her nimble needles, sets out cards,
And guesses fortunes with the king of hearts.
What anguish, as the days go by! … But should,
30One evening, our lugubrious solitude
Be lightened, as I sit behind my draughts,
When some new sledge arrives from distant parts,
An unexpected family – one old woman,
Two girls (two blonde and shapely sisters) … human
This dismal spot, as never known before!
And life, O generous God, is full once more!
First comes discreet all-round examination,
Next a few words, which lead to conversation,
And friendly laughter; then the evening warble,
40And lively waltzes, whispering at table,
And many a languid glance and foolish speech
And lingering meeting in a stairway niche.
One girl goes out upon the darkening porch,
Her face and bosom snow-blown as I watch.
The Russian rose cannot be harmed by winter:
How a kiss in frost will warm and tint her!
How fresh a Russian girl in falling snow!
1829
Winter Morning
A marvellous day: sunshine and frost!
Still asleep, my sweet one? – Rise,
Open your bright and splendid eyes,
Those eyes voluptuousness has closed!
Yourself a northern star, come forth
And greet Aurora of the North!
Last night, remember how it blew –
Through lowering skies black stormclouds rode
And, nothing but a yellow spot
10In murk, the moon glowed palely through;
And there you sat in gloom and sighed –
But now it’s over … Look outside:
The sun shines down from purest azure,
Carpeted in brilliant snow
The countryside is all aglow;
Only the woods show dark, through hoar
The tips of fir-trees thrust their green;
Below the ice, spring waters gleam.
The room is lit with amber light;
20Merrily the heaped-up wood
Cracks and spits in the stove. How good
To lie above and ruminate.
But now it’s time to take the sleigh
And harness up the little bay!
To gallop through the morning snow,
My love, at really breakneck speed,
And give our raring mare her head –
Into the woods all leafless now,
Over the open fields, so free –
30And to that shore so dear to me.
1829
I loved you: in my heart, perhaps,
Love may not be extinguished yet;
But I will weary you no more,
Nor cause you sadness or regret.
I loved you not in words, or hope,
But shyly, and in jealous torture;
My love was tender, it was true,
As may God grant you from another.
1829
I walk the crowded thoroughfare,
I sit in youth’s mad company,
I see a multitude in prayer …
And give myself to reverie.
I tell myself, the years will flee,
The vaults already wait for us,
For those we see and cannot see;
The end is near for one of us.
I see a solitary oak;
10It will outlive my passing time,
I tell myself, that patriarch,
Just as it did my fathers’ prime.
An infant merry as a bell
I pat upon the head; to you
I willingly yield place: farewell!
Old blooms must fade before the new.
Each day, each year, before it goes
Brings food for thought; I ask myself
Which one of them am I to guess
20Will bear the annal of my death?
Where will my day of reckoning come?
At sea, in battle, east or west?
Or in a near, familiar tomb
Will my cold dust be laid to rest?
To me it will not signify,
The spot where my remains decay,
Although it would be best to die
Not far from places dear to me.
Upon the threshold of the grave
30Let young life freely dance and play,
And let indifferent Nature have
Her beautiful eternal way.
1829
Inscribe my name? What good –
To die, like the sad roar
Of waves on some far shore
Or night sound from a wood?
Upon your album-leaf
As on memorial stone
A trace of some dead tongue
Is all that it will leave.
Your bold heart will outlive
10Many a new affection,
Tender recollection
My name will never give.
But say it one sad day
With quiet melancholy;
You’ll say: I’ve not left wholly
One heart, one memory.
1830
No, I have lost the taste for stormy pleasure,
The frenzy and the riot of sensual rapture,
The young bacchante’s sighs and groans and cries,
As, writhing like a snake in my embrace,
With sudden biting kisses and caresses
She hastens on the final throes of passion!
My humble one, ah! you are dearer, truer!
Tormented, I am happier with you,
When, in response to my prolonged entreaty,
10You give yourself to me, without excitement,
Bashful and distant, seeming not to hear me,
And making no reply to my endearments,
But warmer, warmer, gradually, to me –
Until at last you share my ecstasy!
1830
To the Poet
Poet, you must not prize the people’s love:
Its shouts of praise die down a moment after.
Be always tranquil, steadfast and aloof
From fools’ critique and public’s heartless laughter.
You are a tsar: live, then, alone. And walk
At will the open highway of ideas,
Bring forth the fruits your free mind cherishes,
And do not seek reward for perfect work.
It lies in you. You are your truest critic;
10You judge your work more sternly than the rest.
Exacting artist, are you contented with it?
Are you? Then let the rabble raise its fist
And spit upon the flame that lights your sanctum
And shake your tripod in its childish tantrum.
1830
Madonna
I’ve never wanted to possess old masters
To have about my home for pure adornment,
Obediently admiring visitors,
The overwe
ening voices of discernment.
But in a quiet corner, as I labour,
I’ve longed to gaze at one old master always,
Just one: looking upon me from the canvas
As from the clouds – the Virgin and the Saviour,
Grandeur of spirit and wisdom in their eyes,
10The gentle ones, in glory of golden rays,
No angels by, beneath a palm on Zion.
At last my wish is granted. Providence
Has granted you to me, you, my Madonna,
The purest image of pure loveliness.
1830
Demons
Stormclouds hurry, stormclouds whirl;
Moon plays hide and seek,
Faintly lights the flying snow;
Sky and night are bleak.
On we go; and ding-ding-ding
Goes the little bell …
Endless spaces frighten me
More than I can tell!
‘Hey there, driver – faster!’ ‘Horses,
10Sir … they’re tired and slow;
’sides, the blizzard’s blinding me,
No more roads – just snow;
Strike me dead, we’ve lost the way!
What are we to do?
We’re the playthings of some sprite –
Round and round we go.
‘There he is, look, up he runs,
Blowing, spitting fiend;
Trying to tug a maddened horse
20Down a deep ravine;
Next, like some fantastic milepost
At our side he rears;
Then he glimmers in the dark;
Then he disappears.’
Stormclouds hurry, stormclouds whirl;
Moon plays hide and seek,
Faintly lights the flying snow;
Sky and night are bleak.
No more strength to circle on;
30No more little bell.
Now we’ve stopped … What’s that out there?
Stump? Wolf? Who can tell?
Angry blizzard, weeping blizzard,
Horses sniff and snort;
There he is now, far away,
Burning eyes cavort;
Now the horses start afresh,
Ding-ding-ding again …
See those spirits gathering
40On the wide white plain.
Numberless and hideous
At their devilries,
Moon-dim hordes of demons whirling
Like November leaves …
What can all their wailing mean?
Where are they being driven?
Some nocturnal burial-rite?
Some witch-bride being given?
Stormclouds hurry, stormclouds whirl;
50Moon plays hide and seek,
Faintly lights the flying snow;
Sky and night are bleak.
Demons, swarm on swarm of them,
Flying to a boundless height,
Their unending doleful moan
Tears and tears my heart …
1830
Elegy
The madcap years have long since gone to waste;
They hang upon me like a drunken haze.
Meanwhile, inside me, sadness from the past
Grows in strength, like wine, with lengthening days.
The course that I must take will offer me
Troubles and toils and a tormented sea.
But I have no desire, dear friends, to die;
I wish to live, to suffer and to think;
I know that griefs and cares will burden me –
10But pleasures also life will surely bring:
I shall again drink in sweet harmony,
The mind’s creations will not cease to wring
Warm tears from me – and on my sad decline
Perhaps one day love’s farewell smile will shine.
1830
To the Bust of a Conqueror
No error – it’s intentional:
Upon the marble of the mouth
The hand of art has put a smile,
But anger on the cold bright brow.
This two-faced portrait isn’t fiction,
For thus he was, this ruler: in
Feelings a walking contradiction,
In face, in life a harlequin.
1830
Rhyme
Echo, the unsleeping nymph, took a stroll on the banks of
Peneus.
Phoebus espied her: the god – seized her, inflamed with
desire.
Great grew the nymph with the fruit of the amorous deity’s
transports;
Naiads gathered about, chattering, at the birth.
Precious was this daughter, the midwife Mnemosyne.
Pranksome of spirit she, reared with the goddess-muses,
Made in her mother’s image and prompt in all her responses,
Cherished by every Muse; mortals know her as Rhyme.
1830
Invocation
If it is true that when the living rest
And shafts of moonlight slide among the gravestones,
If it is true the quiet graves empty then –
One shade I call: my Leila, come!
Come as you were, beloved shade, before
Our parting, pale and cold as a winter’s day,
With face distorted in your agony.
Come, like a distant star or sound, or breath,
Or dreadful ghost, no matter: come!
10I call you not in order to chastise
Those whose evil malice killed my love,
Nor pry into the secrets of the grave,
Nor because I am pursued by doubt …
I only wish to say, I love you still,
Still I am yours: my Leila, come!
1830
Mary’s song
from A Feast during the Plague
MARY (sings)
Once in this our country
Peace and plenty ruled;
Once upon a Sunday
Holy church was filled;
From the crowded school-house
Children’s voices pealed,
Busy scythe and sickle
Sparkled in the field.
Church is now forsaken;
10School-house all forlorn;
Darkling groves are empty;
Wasted is the corn;
Like a burnt-out building
Stands each street of doom; –
All is still and silent
Save the swelling tomb.
Always dead are carried;
Groans of those that live
Peace to the departed
20Call on God to give.
Always room is needed;
Graves of new-interred
Draw their ranks together
Like some frightened herd.
Should my Spring be destined
Early for the grave –
You whom I have loved so,
All the joy life gave,
Pray shun Jenny’s body,
30Do not come too near
Those dead lips, but follow
From afar the bier.
Go then from this village;
Find some resting-place,
Where your soul’s affliction
May be granted grace.
When the Plague is over,
Visit my poor dust;
In the vault of heaven
40Jenny will keep trust.
1830
Master of the Revels’ song
from A Feast during the Plague
MASTER OF THE REVELS (sings)
When great Winter he throws
At his bitterest foes
Shaggy legions of frost, ice and snow –
We meet them with feasting’s glad glow.
The Black Queen with her hosts
A rich harvest she boasts,
Her dread spade taps our door night and day …
What can we do now but pray?
<
br /> Let us shut out the Plague
10Like the Winter’s rampage!
We’ll carouse, and our goblets we’ll drain
To the Plague’s universal reign.
There’s a savage delight
In the thick of the fight,
The chasm, the ocean’s dark rage,
The whirlwind, the smell of the Plague.
In what threatens with death
Our mortal breath,
Should we make its discovery –
20There is joy – immortality!
To the Plague then, all praise –
None her summons dismays!
Let us drink, while the cup overflows,
Of the breath of the Maid of the Rose!
1830
Bound for your distant homeland
You left an alien shore;
I wept that hour before you
And I could weep no more.
I did my best to hold you
In pleading hands grown chill,
The torment of our parting,
I strove to hold it still.
But from that cruel embracing
10You tore your lips away,
Bid me from my dark exile
To your resplendent day.
‘We’ll meet,’ you promised, ‘under
A sky forever blue,
In olives’ shade, my darling,
We’ll kiss there, and be true.’
But where the arch of heaven
Shines a brilliant blue,
Where olives shade the waters,
20At last there’s rest for you.
Your beauty and your suffering
Are sealed for evermore –
With them, the kiss of greeting
You’ve kept me waiting for …
1830
Married Life, 1831–6
To the Slanderers of Russia
What, tribunes of the people, is all this fuss for?
Why do you heap anathemas on Russia?
So, troubles in the Lithuanian state?
This is a problem that concerns the Slav,
The answer to it you will never have;
An old domestic difference, judged by Fate.
History has forever seen
War among these people;
Now our side and now theirs has been
10The strong one or the feeble.
Which side will claim the victory?
The puffed-up Pole? Or Russian?
Will all Slav streams meet in the Russian sea?
Will it dry up? – the question.
Leave us alone: you haven’t read
Selected Poetry (Penguin) Page 9
