From Pushkin
⁂
I wander down the noisy streets,
I enter crowded fanes,
I join in youthful revelries,
I give my fancy reins.
I say, “The years are flying fast,
And seen we scarce are here,
Before we reach eternal tombs;
For each the hour is near.”
I glance upon the lonely oak,
The patriarch of the wood,
And think, “He’ll live through my brief day,
He through my father’s stood.”
I fondly kiss the little child,
And, kissing, think, “Good-bye!
I’m giving up my place to you.
You bloom; ’tis mine to die.”
Thus every day, thus every hour,
I’m wont with thought to spend,
And strive to guess the birthday-date
Of my approaching end.
Ah! where will Fate send Death to me?
Abroad? in war? on deep?
Or will a neighbouring valley hold
My cold dust in its keep?
Yet, though I know my lifeless form
Must rot where’er I die,
I’d fondly wish near my loved home,
In my own land, to lie.
There, round the entrance to the grave,
Let young life freely play,
And careless Nature calmly smile
With ageless beauty gay!