Aleksandr Pushkin

The storm covers skies in darkness,
Spinning snowy whirlwinds tight,
Now it wails like a beast wildest,
Now it cries like a week child,
Now suddenly it rustles
The old roof’s dry thatching mass, 
Now, a traveller, late and gusty,
It knocks at our window’s glass.

Our hut, poor and unstable,
Is the dark and sad to feel.
Why, are you, my little old lady,
Silent at the window-sill?
Are you tired, o my dear,
By the howling of the storm,
Or just dozing while you hear
The still hum your spindle from?

Let us drink, o comrade, dear,
Of my youth, so poor and hard, -
‘Gainst our woe; is a cup here?
It will cheer the saddened heart. 
Sing a song about a blue-tit,
Which, beyond the sea, lived well,
Or about the maiden, bloomed,
Who went early to a well.

The storm covers skies with darkness,
Spinning snowy whirlwinds tight;
Now it wails like a beast wildest,
Now it cries like a week child.
Let us drink, o comrade dear
Of my youth, so poor and hard, -
‘Gainst our woe; is a cup here?
It will cheer the saddened heart.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, February 14, 2004