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« The Sign of the Broken Sword | Main | Open Hearts »
Friday
Feb192016

Pushkin, "Кто из богов мне возвратил"

A work ("Which god has ever yet restored") by this poet.  You can read the original here.

Which god has ever yet restored  
All those with whom I came to share             
My mud-bound march and vulgar mores,
When Brutus led us in despair, 
And freedom's specter was our lord?  
All those with whom my front line tears           
In bottomless tent cups I drowned,        
And curls tight-wrapped in ivy's sheers  
With Syrian myrrh in embalmed crown?

At war's worst hour will you abide   
That I, poor Quiris fearful, fled
My shield cast down beside my pride,
With vows and prayers in my stead?
How fear reigned whole and how I flew!
But Hermes in a sudden breath 
My world made safe, whence he withdrew
And saved me from most certain death.

But you, O you, first love of mine, 
Again in battle did you rage, 
And then to Rome fate's force would bind  
Your steps to my warm, simple cage. 
Sit now beside my hallowed hearth 
And let us pour.  Do not regret
My wines or perfumes, sweet or tart,
The laurels sit.  Lad, pour us wet!
Here pale restraint will find no place:
Like Scythians wild I wish to drink 
And with a friend so celebrate,
That senses bleed and do not think.

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