Sunday, August 23, 2009


I am depressed.
My house of cards has blown down
from the draft of a closing door.
I walk, drink coffee, read a good novel but,
I am depressed.
Intimations of depression
often rise like waves
and pass.
Yesterday the wave crashed on the shore.
I am so cold, so depressed.
I gather wood for the stove and soon fill a creel.
A flickering flame becomes that homely fire
in a Bavarian wood, long ago,
where all my fairy tales are spent.
Прогулки, чтенье, сон глубокой,Лесная тень, журчанье струй,Порой белянки черноокойМладой и свежий поцелуй,Узде послушный конь ретивый,Обед довольно прихотливый,Бутылка светлого вина,Уединенье, тишина:Вот жизнь Онегина святая;И нечувствительно он ейПредался, красных летних днейВ беспечной неге не считая,Забыв и город, и друзей,И скуку праздничных затей.
EUGENE ONEGIN by A. C. Pushkin.
XXXVIII. XXXIX Translated by Charles Johnston
Books, riding, walks, sleep heavy laden,
the shady wood, the talking stream;
sometimes from a fair black eyed maiden
the kiss where youth and freshness gleam;
a steed responsive to the bridle,
and dinner with a touch of idle
fancy, a wine serene in mood,
tranquillity, and solitude -
Onegin’s life, you see, was holy;
unconsciously he let it mount
its grip on him, forgot to count
bright summer days that passed so slowly,
forgot to think of towns and friends
and tedious means to festive ends.


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