To turn at last to lifeless stone
Amid this world's deceptive glitter,
This swirling swamp in which we lie
And wallow, friends, both you and I!
Chapter 7
Moscow! Russia's favourite daughter!
Where is your equal to be found!
Dmitriev
Can one not love our native Moscow?
Baratynsky
'Speak ill of Moscow!
So this is what it means to see the world!
Where is it better, then?'
'Where we are not.'
Griboedov
1
Spring rays at last begin to muster
And chase from nearby hills the snow,
Whose turbid streams flow down and cluster
To inundate the fields below.
And drowsy nature, smiling lightly,
Now greets the dawning season brightly.
The heavens sparkle now with blue;
The still transparent woods renew
Their downy green and start to thicken.
The bee flies out from waxen cell
To claim its meed from field and dell.
The vales grow dry and colours quicken;
The cattle low; and by the moon
The nightingale pours forth its tune.
2
How sad I find your apparition,
O spring! ... #62038; time of love's unrest!
What sombre echoes of ambition
Then stir my blood and fill my breast!
What tender and oppressive yearning
Possesses me on spring's returning,
When in some quiet rural place
I feel her breath upon my face!
Or am I now inured to gladness;
And all that quickens and excites,
That sparkles, triumphs, and delights
Casts only spleen and languid sadness
On one whose heart has long been dead,
For whom but darkness lies ahead?
3
Or saddened by the re-emergence
Of leaves that perished in the fall,
We heed the rustling wood's resurgence,
As bitter losses we recall;
