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Alexander Pushkin, translated by D. M. Thomas
. . . I have visited again
That corner of the earth where I spent two
Unnoticed, exiled years. Ten years have passed
Since then, and many things have changed for me,
5 And I have changed too, obedient to life’s law—
But now that I am here again, the past
Has flown out eagerly to embrace me, claim me,
And it seems that only yesterday I wandered
Within these groves.
10 Here is the cottage, sadly
Declined now, where I lived with my poor old nurse.
She is no more. No more behind the wall
Do I hear her heavy footsteps as she moved
Slowly, painstakingly about her tasks.
15 Here are the wooded slopes where often I
Sat motionless, and looked down at the lake,
Recalling other shores and other waves . . .
It gleams between golden cornfields and green meadows,
A wide expanse; across its fathomless waters
20 A fisherman passes, dragging an ancient net.
Along the shelving banks, hamlets are scattered
—Behind them the mill, so crooked it can scarcely
Make its sails turn in the wind . . .
On the bounds
25 Of my ancestral acres, at the spot
Where a road, scarred by many rainfalls, climbs
The hill, three pine trees stand—one by itself,
The others close together. When I rode
On horseback past them in the moonlit night,
30 The friendly rustling murmur of their crowns
Would welcome me. Now, I have ridden out
Upon that road, and seen those trees again.
They have remained the same, make the same murmur—
But round their aging roots, where all before
35 Was barren, naked, a thicket of young pines
Has sprouted; like green children round the shadows
Of the two neighboring pines. But in the distance
Their solitary comrade stands, morose,
Like some old bachelor, and round its roots
40 All is barren as before.
I greet you, young
And unknown tribe of pine trees! I’ll not see
Your mighty upward thrust of years to come
When you will overtop these friends of mine
45 And shield their ancient summits from the gaze
Of passersby. But may my grandson hear
Your welcome murmur when, returning home
From lively company, and filled with gay
And pleasant thoughts, he passes you in the night,
50 And thinks perhaps of me . . .
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