My Years of Youth Have Passed Away
Translated by C. H. Andrusyshen and Watson Kirkconnell
My years of youth have passed away . . .
And from the West, where hope should stay,
I feel a cold and wintry blast!
In your cold dwelling sit at last
With not a soul for conversation
And not a shred of consolation
For which in loneliness to grope!
Sit thus alone until faint hope,
Poor fool, will mock at you once more
And couch your eyes with frost-ice hoar
And scatter all your visions airy
Like snowflakes down the empty prairie. . .
In your dark corner sit alone
And nevermore for springtime moan!
It will not come again for you
To bless your orchard with its dew
And bless the hopes for which you yearn,
Yes, nevermore will it return
To free your thoughts. Sit, past recall,
And look for naught, for naught at all! . . .
1860, St. Petersburg