A pond for ducks to wallow free.
The balalaika's now my pleasure,
And by the country tavern door
The peasant dance's drunken roar.
A housewife now is what I treasure;
I long for peace, for simple fare:
Just cabbage soup and room to spare.
***
The other day, in rainy weather,
As I approached the farm . . . Enough!
What prosy ravings strung together,
The Flemish painter's motley stuff!
Was I like that when I was tender,
Bakhchisarai,* you fount of splendour!
Were these the thoughts that crossed my mind
When, 'neath your endless chant I pined
And then in silence meditated
And pondered my Zarma's* fate? . . .
Within those empty halls ornate,
Upon my trail, three years belated,
While travelling near that selfsame sea,
Onegin, pausing, thought of me.
* * *
I lived back then in dry Odessa . ..
Where skies for endless days are clear,
Where commerce, bustling, crowds and presses
And sets its sails for far and near;
Where all breathes Europe to the senses,
And sparkling Southern sun dispenses
A lively, varied atmosphere.
Along the merry streets you'll hear
Italian voices ringing loudly;
You'll meet the haughty Slav, the Greek,
Armenian, Spaniard, Frenchman sleek,
The stout Moldavian prancing proudly;
And Egypt's son as well you'll see,
The one-time corsair, Morali*
***
Our friend Tumnsky* sang enchanted
Odessa's charms in splendid verse,
But we must say that he was granted
A partial viewthe poet's curse.
No sooner here than he went roaming,
Lorgnette in hand and senses foaming,
Above the lonely sea . . . and then
With his enraptured poet's pen
He praised Odessa's gardens greatly.
That's fine of course, but all I've found
Is barren steppeland all around,
Though here and there much labour lately
