A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation
FROM “EUGENE ONEGIN “
28
Yes, foes!-How many days, bethink you,
Since hatred stepped the two between,
And since in hours of thought and leisure,
At work, at table, they have been
As comrades! Now, with purpose dread,
Like men in mutual loathing bred,
Each plans, as though in broadest day
A heavy nightmare on him lay,
The other’s downfall in his heart.
Oh, could they smile but once, while still
Their hands are pure from deed of ill,
And then their sev’ral ways depart!
But worldly hate, like worldly fame,
Shrinks at the breath of worldly shame.
30
-Now, come together!
Calmly, coldly,
Not aiming yet, with haughty glance,
And tread assured and light, though measured,
The combatants four steps advance,
Four steps to death-whereon Eugene,
Still forward moving o’er the green,
(The other likewise) first began
To raise his weapon, fix his man. . . .
N ine steps now of the fateful quest
Were counted-Lensky, with a frown,
His left eye closed, took aim-when down
Oniegin’s thumb the trigger prest. . . .
Reverse the sand-glass!-Lensky sighed-
No more!-and let his pistol glide.
31
He sought his breast with clutching fingers-
He fell, his glance grew dim, and still
It spoke of death alone, not torment,
As when upon some eastern hill
All sparkling in the morning light,
The snow-wreath vanishes from sight.
Oniegin, suddenly a-cold
With horror, saw his shot had told.
He hastened-o’er the poet’s form
He stooped, he called his name-too late!
He was no more-untimely fate!
The flower had perished in the storm-
The music on the broken lyre,
And on the altar-stone, the fire!
32
And there he lay! How unfamiliar
Upon his brow the languid grace !
Beneath his breast the ball had pierced him,
The smoking blood ran down apace,
Thence, where, a few brief moments past,
The pulse of life was bounding fast,
Where hate and hope and love were strong,
And warm emotions wont to throng.
The heart is now a house bereft
Of former inmates-every floor
Is dark and still for evermore,
With dusty panes. The host has left;
And whither went he ? Who shall say ?
His very trace is swept away.
33
To write an epigram, a sharp one,
Your stupid foe to irritate,
Is very nice. To see him lower
His sullen horns, still obstinate,
And, nolens volens, in the glass
With shame behold himself and pass.
Twere nicer still (the fool!), should he
Stand there and gape-” ‘Tis meant for me!”
And silently to dig your foe
An honoured grave, to aim with care-
Your mark, the pallid forehead there,
A generous distance off-we know,
Is nicest . But to see him fall
And lie, is scarcely nice at all!
34
We’ll just suppose, my friend, your pistol Has stretched a young acquaintance dead-
Because of forward look or answer,
Because some idle thing he said
Had stung you o’er the wine last night,
Or even called you out to fight
Himself in boyish anger-well,
What kind of feeling, pray you, tell,
Came o’er you with a whelming rush,
When laid before you on the ground,
Without a motion or a sound,
He stiffens in the sudden hush ?
When dumb, with blinded stare, he lies,
Stone-deaf to your despairing cries ?
A few random poems:
- June by William Cullen Bryant
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- Владимир Маяковский – Товарищу Нетте, пароходу и человеку
- Наум Коржавин – Песня лейб-казачьей сотни
- Ольга Высотская – Здравствуй, праздник
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- No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief poem – Gerard Manley Hopkins poems
- Before
- To Homer poem – John Keats poems
- Владимир Британишский – А Новый год мы встретили в лесу
- Владимир Луговской – Ночной патруль
- Let Him Free by Mary Etta Metcalf
- Lines from Endymion poem – John Keats poems
- The Freshness by Rumi
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External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Spain 1873–’74. by Walt Whitman
- Souvenirs of Democracy. by Walt Whitman
- Song of the Universal. by Walt Whitman
- Song of the Redwood-Tree. by Walt Whitman
- Song of the Open Road. by Walt Whitman
- Song of the Exposition. by Walt Whitman
- Song of the Broad-Axe. by Walt Whitman
- Song for All Seas, All Ships. by Walt Whitman
- Song at Sunset. by Walt Whitman
- Sometimes with One I Love. by Walt Whitman
- Solid, Ironical, Rolling Orb. by Walt Whitman
- Sobbing of The Bells, The. by Walt Whitman
- So Long. by Walt Whitman
- So Far and So Far, and on Toward the End. by Walt Whitman
- The Sleepers by Walt Whitman
- Singer in the Prison, The. by Walt Whitman
- Sing of the Banner at Day-Break. by Walt Whitman
- Shut Not Your Doors, &c. by Walt Whitman
- Ship Starting, The. by Walt Whitman
- Scented Herbage of My Breast. by Walt Whitman
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Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Alexander Pushkin (1799-1937) was a Russian poet, playwright and prose writer, founder of the realistic trend in Russian literature, literary critic and theorist of literature, historian, publicist, journalist; one of the most important cultural figures in Russia in the first third of the 19th century.