Eugene Onegin

October 19, 2007

By now the rays of spring are chasing

the snow from all surrounding hills;

it melts, away it rushes, racing

down to the plain in turbid rills.

Smiling through sleep, nature is meeting

the infant year with cheerful greeting:

the sky is brilliant in its blue

and, still transparent to the view,

the downy woods are greener-tinted;

from waxen cell the bees again

levy their tribute on the plain;

the vales dry out, grow brightly painted;

cows low, in the still nights of spring

the nightingales begin to sing.

– from Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin, translation by Charles Johnston.

 

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