No sorrow, no calls, no tears.
Now it's gone, white foam from apple-tree.
Faded, seized by tarnished golden flares,
I will not feel youthful. Never me.
I'll no more go roaming, no more seeking,
No more crushing goosefoot in the wood.
With those oatsheaf locks you tossed when speaking
I've quit my father's home
And left blue Russ. With three
Bright stars the birch-tree grove
Consoles my mother's grief.
Ìíå îñòàëàñü îäíà çàáàâà:
Ïàëüöû â ðîò - è âåñ¸ëûé ñâèñò.
Ïðîêàòèëàñü äóðíàÿ ñëàâà,
So it happened and please don't swear.
I'm a not a word dealer now.
My poor head - it's too hard to bear
And bent-down is my golden brow.
Cleared the cornfield, bare the boughs are,
From still waters mist is rolling,
Like a wheel beyond the mountains
Has the silent sun gone rolling.