My Dream.
By Ada Chumachenko.
Translated by P. Leonov.
Every night I seem to see before me
My native fields, where sporting winds are free,
Where they sing their songs while gently swaying
The feath'ry grass, so like a silver sea.
And the tall proud poplar stands before me,
All shining with the sun's caressing rays;
And the calm, dark, quiet little garden
So long neglected—with its brush-wood maze.
Every night my country's shining heavens,
All azure-blue, above my head are sweet;
There I see the sun in golden glory,
Sending a glow through waves of rip'ning wheat.
And above, a sparrow-hawk is soaring,
A tiny speck, by sun caressed, he seems. . .
Every night I weep, as if my heart were breaking,
Weep like a child, deceived by its own dreams.
*
**
By A. S. Pushkin.
Translated for "The Russian Review."
Who stopped you here, ye waves and billows?
Who fettered tight your mighty course?
Who changed to silent, marshy waters
Those torrents, full of life and force?
Come storms and winds, come plow the billows,
Come, rend apart this barrier strong!
Come thou, tempest, freedom's symbol,
Rush o'er the waves enslaved so long!
