Pushkin. A Lament1
Pushkin. A LamentYou shed, O graceful sun, upon the Black Sea range
Of hills the blessings of a splendid spring — for what?
You cease, greedy north wind, to rage, ceding your place
To zephyrs wafting fragrance instead of sleet — why?
Caucasian vales, O hide your charms now from the world!
For whom now do your blossoms burst into bloom? What use?
He is no more, who so lovingly described
The beauties of your magnificent springtimes.
Beneath the soil he moulders now. It is fitting
For you to cast off joyful garments for sackcloth,
And from the cloudy skies above the icy Volga
Once more, O spring, to veil your cheeks in shadows dark.
Restrain the charming trillings of your harbingers
Beyond the sea; and in your depths remain, O sweet
Maiden of the Volga. Look!
