A white and lonely sail’s appearing
in haze above the azure foam!:..
Where is the land to which it’s steering?
What has it left behind at home?
The waves they play. The wind is blowing,
The straining mast it bends and creaks…
Alas, to joy it is not going
Nor flees it midst the briny peaks.
Below it deep blue draught is dragging,
Above it shines the golden sun…
But, rebel, it entreats storms’ nagging
As if in storms its peace is won.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Белеет парус одинокий
В тумане моря голубом!..
Что ищет он в стране далекой?
Что кинул он в краю родном?..
Играют волны — ветер свищет,
И мачта гнется и скрипит…
Увы, — он счастия не ищет
И не от счастия бежит!
Под ним струя светлей лазури,
Над ним луч солнца золотой…
А он, мятежный, просит бури,
Как будто в бурях есть покой.
Translation by Rupert Moreton
lingua fennica 
[…] drawn to and thriving in the storms and chaos. Why the very first – and possibly the only – poem by a classical Russian poet I actually enjoyed having to learn by heart as a kid, was literally, a learning by heart. It is […]
LikeLiked by 1 person