Excerpt from a poem, 1833
They say ill things of the last days of Autumn:
But I, friend reader, not a one will hear;
It quiet beauty touches me as surely
As does a wistful child, to no one dear.
It can rejoice me more, I tell you frankly,
Than all the other seasons of the year.
I am a humble lover, and I could
Find, singularly, much in it that’s good.
Oh, mournful season that delights the eyes,
Its farewell beauty captivates my spirit.
I love the pomp of Nature’s fading dyes,
The forests, garmented in gold and purple,
The rush of noisy wind, and the pale skies
Half-hidden by the clouds in darkling billows,
And the rare sun-ray and the early frost,
And threats of grizzled Winter, heard and lost
Each time that Autumn comes I bloom afresh;
For me, I find, the Russian cold is good;
Again I go through life’s routine with relish:
Sleep comes in season, and the need for food;
Desire seethes—and I am young and merry,
My heart beats fast with lightly leaping blood.....
Alexander Pushkin, who lived from 1799 to 1837, was one of Russia's greatest poets. Pushkin is considered to be the father of Russian literature and Russia's greatest poet.
TRANSLATED BY AVRAHM YARMOLINSKY
P.S. I love all the seasons, unlike Alexander Pushkin :)