Autumn Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

From Pushkin

What comes not then into my dormant mind?
Derzhavin.

I
October came — the grove already throws
The last leaves off its naked limbs.
The autumn's cold had blown — the road froze,
Purling, the brook beyond the mill still streams,
But frozen is the pond; my neighbor promptly goes
To distant grounds with the hunt of his,
And suffer winter crops the savage larking,
And sleeping oak woods are woken up with barking.

II

Now it is my time, for spring I do not love;
Thaw boring is to me; stench, mud — in spring I'm sick;
Blood ferments; my senses, mind are troubled, thereof
I do prefer a winter bleak.
I love her snows; attended by the moon above,
How a sledge run with a girlfriend free and quick,
When warm and fresh under her sable furs,
Blushing and shivering, she takes your hand in hers!

III

Or having put on skates, how cheerful it is
To glide upon a mirror-like unyielding river flow!
And the winter holidays' illuminating thrills? ..
But it's high time to stop; for half a year snow and snow,
The dweller of a den, a bear finally may tire of all this.
For a whole century we simply cannot go
Riding in sledges with young Graces
Or mope by firesides and double window-cases.

IV

Oh, summer glorious! I'd love you, as long as
There were no mosquitoes and flies, and dust, and heat.
Spoiling all mental faculties one has,
You torture us; we suffer from your drought like wheat;
Just to get watered and freshened up — no other thought in us,
We start to pity winter, the old hag, indeed,
And with pancakes and wine having attended her demise,
Serve her commemoration with ice-cream and ice.

V

Days of late autumn they usually scold,
But I am fond of her, my dear reader,
Of that mild beauty modestly installed.
Just as to me an unloved child seems sweeter
Among his own kin. And if the truth be told,
Of all the seasons only hers I am a joyful greeter.
She has much good; a lover of little self-esteem,
I did find something in her with my willful dream.

VI

How is it to be explained? I like her as you may
At times find charming a consumptive maid.
Condemned to death, poor thing withers away
Without murmuring, without hate.
A smile upon her faded lips is seen; she fails to pay
Attention to the gaping grave before her laid;
Still crimson colour in her face she's got.
She's still alive today, tomorrow she is not.

VII

A gloomy time! Sensations' fascination!
Your parting beauty pleasant to behold —
I do love nature's rich dilapidation,
All forests clothed in crimson and in gold,
In their halls wind's noise and chilly respiration,
A wavy mist cast over the sky's vault,
And the first frosts, a seldom sunny ray,
And hoary winter's threats from far away.

VIII

And with each fall I blossom once again;
Cold weather makes my health feel stronger;
Once more love to the habits of existence I regain;
By turn sleep flies away, by turn comes hunger;
Lightly and joyfully blood courses through my vein,
Desires boil in me — I am happy, younger,
I'm full of life again — such is my organism
(Kindly forgive me for the needless prosaism) .

IX

A steed is brought to me; and in an open space,
Tossing his mane, he swiftly goes,
And ice crusts crack and frozen vales
Resound loudly under his shining hooves.
But the short day dies out, in the forgotten fireplace
A fire burns again — now it brightly glows,
Now grows dim — while I am reading by its side
Or nourishing long meditations in my mind.

X

And I forget the world — and in the sweet repose
I'm sweetly lulled with my imagination,
And poetry in me comes forth:
My soul is strained with lyric agitation,
Sounds and thrills, and seeks, like in a doze,
To vent itself at last in a free manifestation —
And here unseen guests come swarming in,
Acquaintances of old, the fruits of my dream.

XI

And in my mind thoughts fearlessly caper,
And airy rhymes onto them cling,
My fingers want a pen, the pen wants paper,
A minute — and my verse shall freely spring.
Likewise upon a quiet sea a vessel slumbers like a vapour,
But hark! — all of a sudden sailors fling,
Climb up, down — and the sails are puffed, full of breeze;
The giantess is off and furrows the seas.

XII

She sails. Where shall we sail? ……………………………
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