Winter. What can we do in the village? I meet
servant, cup carrying my morning tea,
with questions: l heat? Whether storm subsided?
Newly-fallen snow has Or Not? and whether the bed can be
Leave for the saddle, il better before lunch
Tinker with old magazines neighbor?
Fresh snow. we get up, and straightway on the horse,
And trotting across the field at the first light of day;
Whip in the hands of, dogs after us;
We look at the snow diligent pale eyes;
whirl, Scour and sometimes too late,
Two birds with mordant, we are home.
Where as fun! Here evening: blizzard howls;
Dark candle lit; shy, heart ache;
drop by drop, slowly swallowing the poison of boredom.
read want; eye over the letters slide,
A thought away ... I close the book;
Pero, I sit; forced to pull out
Muse dormant incoherent words.
By the sound of the sound does not suit ... lose all rights
above rhyme, on my handmaidens strange:
Verse sluggish stretches, cold and foggy.
Tired, I stop with liroyu dispute,
I go into the living room; there can hear the conversation
About the closest elections, a sugar factory;
The hostess frowns into a kind of weather,
Steel spokes quickly moving,
Ile hadaet King of chervonnoho.
Yearning! So day after day is in seclusion!
But if the evening in a sad The village in,
When over drafts I sit in a corner,
Coming from a distance in the carriage sleigh il
Nezhdanov family: old woman, two girls
(two blond, Two slender sister), —
How enlivened dull side!
What's up, Oh my God, it becomes full!
First indirectly-attentive gaze,
Then a few words, then talk,
And there, and laughter, and songs of the evening,
And Waltzes frisky, and whisper at the table,
And languid eyes, and windy speech,
On the narrow stairs delayed the meeting;
And the maiden comes out at dusk on the porch:
open neck, chest, and her face blizzard!
But the storm of the north are not harmful rose Russian.
How hot it glows in the cold potsaluy!
As a virgin Russian fresh snow in the dust!
